Imperfections
by SunnyOrange
Summary: I shall be the most beautiful of all of them. The men will all crave me. The woman will be in awe, but inwardly despising me. "It is the price one pays, Rosalie, to have such looks." Or so I'm told. {Cir.1932-1933. •Edward/Rosalie• •Carlisle/Esme•.}
1. After the World's Opinion

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns everything in the land of Twilight. No copyright infringement is meant.

**Imperfections**

After the World's Opinions

"_It is easy in the world to live after the world's opinions; it is easy in solitude to live after your own; but the great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with __perfect__ sweetness the independence of solitude.__" – Ralph Waldo Emerson _

.~~.

Rosalie – May, 1932

The window pane feels chilled against my skin. It's a nice relief to the hotness I feel within. I open my eyes and stare out into the raw night. Dark grey clouds float against the midnight blue backdrop. The moon is full and hangs heavily in the sky. It's as if I can reach out and clasp it in my palm. Would it be cold to the touch, hard around my curled fingers? Would it kiss my skin or burn it with its frigidness. I read the moon gets its light from the Sun. Would the moon retain any heat from the burning star? Would the moon take the heat from my palm and leave my fingers to become frostbitten? Would the moon embrace me like an old friend, spreading some of its silvery glow upon me?

On nights like these I feel as if the moon is my only friend, my constant confidante. It not only holds the light of the sun, but my deepest secrets, my exalted ambitions, my shortcomings and my deepest cracks. Would the supposed face of the moon laugh at my spoken inner musings or kiss my perfectly creamy skin? Would it also expect me to be perfect?

I raise my hand to the wavy glass and allow my fingers to slide down. Condensation gathers on my flesh, and even though it's May, beads of water form on the window. My mother talks about the terrible ventilation of our house, but I hardly notice until the winter. The drafts through the house feel nice along my skin. We have little to complain about but mother finds something. I often smile at her when she becomes distraught, or as close to it as allowable.

I wonder why I'm awake at this hour: two in the early morning. It seems quite strange to me as I'm usually a deep sleeper. Wild dreams I often have, so vivid, so delineative, and so realistic. The worst night terrors habitually wake me. However, I know it wasn't what sent my eyes fluttering open tonight. Whatever the reason, it is said and done. It doesn't do well for me to fret about such senseless things.

The house creaks and settles around me, pulling me from the whimsical thoughts floating in my sleepy mind. I listen for a short time, waiting to see if anyone else is awake. When the inhabitants remain silent, only my father's snores to pierce my ears, I make my way over to my canopy bed. The medal frame is beautiful and fitted with mirrors. "_You should always desire to see your beauty, Rosalie_," my mother lectures.

I can see my reflection now as I come closer, and even though it's dark, my blonde hair shines brightly in the waning light. My facial features are too dark to make out, but I know them utterly well; they are memorized to perfection. I run my still wet fingers over my face and take in the bone structure.

"_It's a face shaped by the hand of God, himself_," my mother says often. Father smiles at me while quickly rolling his eyes, making sure his wife of over twenty years doesn't catch him. He knows the temperament of his wife well.

Am I truly that special, I ask myself often? Is my beauty truly that matchless and exceptional? All my life I've been led to believe so. On nights that I stare out the window and into the glorious heavens, I doubt such "truths" from my mother. Would the heavens truly weep at my beauty; would Venus be covetous of my delicate splendor? Would Aphrodite aspire to murder me because I was more alluring in my brilliance? Isn't that the mark of true perfection?

_Is there one more conditioned than I at being so shallow_?

_It was a question best left unanswered at such a late hour_, I tell myself. In the back of my mind, I think it's a question best left unanswered always. Even water nymphs couldn't survive in the superficial waters that ran inside me.

I take off my silk robe and carefully drape it over the day bed, sitting at the end of my extravagant canopy. It seems everything in my life is ornate, myself included. Why should I be any different that my possessions?

The bed squeaks gently as I ease into it. I can't afford to rip another French silk nightgown. "_Money doesn't simply appear out of air, Rosalie_," my mother would scold. I think, _why then do I even need such opulence_?

I enjoy the lavishness; it would be a lie to state otherwise. From my silver hairbrush to my jewel-incrusted hair combs, it's all a welcomed existence to me. Of course I know nothing else.

My head hits the fine goose-down pillow and I sigh in peace, or maybe just at the stillness. I'm not required as of now to be Rosalie Lillian Hale: socialite extraordinaire, the most beautiful, affluent young lady in Rochester. I'm _simply Rose_, or to my younger brothers, Rosie. I cling to the variance, needing to differentiate between the opposing sides or risk the real possibility of losing myself. It simply cannot be borne.

The house continues to settle in as I push the thoughts from my mind. It is best left for another night.

I must get "_plenty of sleep tonight_", mother orders. A beauty like mine is to be "_maintained and cultivated, not frivolously wasted away_".

"_It is a talent, Rosalie_," she lectures. "_One isn't simply beautiful, daughter; it must be taught and practiced. You must be refined and genteel, dear. You mustn't speak too loudly or come off vulgar in any regard. You need to show patience and fragility. Never be overly ostentations, but respectful, refined, glorious_."

It's something I hear often repeated to me.

My eyes start to droop as I envision another party tomorrow. The room will be bathed in light from chandeliers. Champagne will float in crystal glasses, waiting to bubble on one's taste-buds. Gentlemen will have on their tuxedos; dressed to the nines. Their jackets will be tailored perfectly and their trousers pressed to precision. The ladies will be dripping in diamonds, while wrapped in the latest acquired fur. Silk dresses will adore their frames and caress their skin. The small piece orchestra will play sweeping music and handsome couples will sway around the room together in perfect form.

And I . . . well; I shall be the most beautiful of all of them. The men will all crave me, and the woman will be in awe, but inwardly despising me. "_It is the price one pays, Rosalie, to have such looks._"

Or so I'm informed often. Rouge thoughts, such as these, are left to the privacy of my canopy bed and the company of the moon. For when in prosperous company I must always think as I want to be perceived. There can be no doubts about my radiance. "_They see any small imperfection, Rosalie Lillian. You think your thoughts private and secluded, but it isn't true. They've been trained to see weaknesses, even in thoughts. Keep it all at bay, dear, and think as I've trained you to. Put on your regal armor and watch as it outshines everyone else_."

I never want to disappoint my mother, so I do as told and instructed. A good and faithful daughter I'll be. Tomorrow, at the Governor's Ball, I shall be resplendent. I'll think all the necessary thoughts and not show any faults. My speech will be perfected, my attitude in check and my unhappy thoughts locked tightly for no one to perceive. Above the fray I shall stand.

I fall asleep Rose, but wake up Rosalie Lillian Hale: _the most dazzling of them all._

_._

* * *

><p>.<p>

Author's Ramblings: I present the first and very short chapter. This will be a multi-chaptered story; not sure how many chapters it will be as of yet, but they will be a lot longer. There will be more than ten.

Lately, I've fallen in love with Rosalie's character and wanted to try and write her story. I'm not sure how it will turn out, but I want to do her much justice. I hate how she is portrayed so shallowly in the books and I know there has to be more to her. The Rosalie inside my head has much more depth to her, so I decided to write it out – lest it never let my mind rest . . . LOL.

This story will go through the last eleven months of her life and of course will include the Cullen's. I'm terribly excited. Anyhow, I'd love, _**love**_ to know your thoughts. All are welcomed.

Thanks for taking a chance and I hope to hear from you, soon.

Love to all . . .


	2. A Long Habit

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns everything in the land of Twilight. No copyright infringement is meant.

**A Long Habit**

"_A long habit of not thinking a thing wrong gives it a superficial appearance of being right.__"_

_- Thomas Paine _

Rosalie – May 1932

My reflection stares back at me in the mirror. I like to believe I have seen my adoring reflection thousands of times. When little, my mother would place me in front of my miniature vanity table, and tell me to stare in the mirror. For one hour a day I would have to stare at myself. "_It's part of your education_," mother would claim. "_One cannot take care of what they have if unappreciated, dear_," she cajoles. My young eyes would follow her, trustingly.

When she would leave and I began my "education", I'd stare at my innocent face. My blonde hair would be in ringlet curls, falling over my slender shoulders. My eyes were big and expressive. The violet wasn't as pronounced as it is now; of course make-up helps to enhance my eyes, making them even more stunning by bringing out the fierce purple. My nose was dainty and symmetrically-centered. My lips looked too big and pink, but mother said it was a flawless feature and would only enrich my perfect face when older.

I would lean forward, wanting to get a good look. At times I would see what my mother saw, a gorgeous little girl that pulled gazes to her wherever she ventured. Other times, I couldn't figure out the fuss. I couldn't understand what made me entirely more special than other little angels.

In church we learned that we were all loved by God; so, why would he make me more beautiful than them? I often became confused.

As I stare at myself, now, I miss that unspoiled child. She wasn't expected impeccability, at least not until older. I watch my hairdresser, working my hair into an acceptable style. I wonder how much mother spends on her annually.

Wave after wave is created in my center-parted hair. Waving lotions are added to help keep the shape of the semi-curls. The irons feel hot against my scalp, but I don't complain; nothing ever comes out of it, anyhow.

Several shaping tools are used until my hair is finally finished. The long waves in the back of my head are pinned and secured along my neckline. Mary, my hairdresser, steps back and takes one more sweeping look. A soft smile overtakes her thin lips as she examines her seamless creation. She always smiles gently when she's done a wonderful job. My hairdo gives me the final touch.

I love the new style of 1932. Several years' previous, women were wearing their hair closer to the scalp, almost as if they had on a helmet. I always disliked when my mother insisted my hair be given the same treatment. She still claims it put all the attention on my gorgeous face (especially the eyes with long cascading lashes), instead of something else. I prefer the deep waves and luxurious volume. It makes ladies look more feminine.

My mother walks over as Mary steps back. I watch her critical gaze sweep over my entire head. She looks for any flaw, any curl out of place. Mary holds her breath as her employer examines. When mother nods her head and steps back, Mary exhales sharply.

"Honestly, Mary, no need for such dramatics," Lillian Hale, _the perfectionist_, claims. She fails to mention how she sent Mary into tears when just a year ago mother unraveled my hair harshly, alleging it was inferior to my stunning face and evening gown. Even I couldn't stop the tears as my hair was pulled callously, every which way.

"You've done a splendid job."

I pass a tiny smile to Mary as I see her small hands shaking. It's not easy to work with a dragon, breathing hot air down one's back, and I can empathize with her.

Mother goes on to explain – in great detail – how she wants my make-up artfully applied. "Natural . . . yet noticeable." I want to point out it seems self-contradictory, but bite my tongue. I don't want to spoil the 'sedate' mood.

"Silver eye make-up, I think," she continues to instruct Mary.

I let them chat as I drift away, but not too far unless my opinion is wanted. I am able to get myself ready, but the lady-of-the-house insists on making the monumental decisions for the grandeur of the Governor's Ball. I'm not even sure why this event is called the 'Governor's Ball'. GOV. Franklin D. Roosevelt doesn't even reside in our town.

_A thought left for another time_ . . .

Instead, I start to prepare myself (mentally) for tonight. I start to clear my mind of frivolous things: thoughts that can put a fissure in the armor I've spent years perfecting; complaints that get me nowhere but where I already reside. It is very necessary for me. Not as even-tempered as I should be, I've learned to coax my emotions until they are where they are required to be.

"_Block everything that doesn't fit into your end goal, Rosalie. Nothing matters but what you want to matter. Caddy comments from lesser, meager people means zilch. Allow it to roll off your exterior, like water off a duck's back. Don't let them bring you down. It's what they want, to see someone five times as lovely and refined as they to fall on their face. Never allow someone that power over you, darling_," she whispers to my fifteen year old ears. It's the mantra I now carry with me.

Regardless if I agree with everything the Madam has spoken, I know I'll follow the advice. I have goals of my own and endeavor to see them to fruition. It's how I've been built and molded. Don't let people see my weakness, only my blinding superior magnificence. Don't let them see my hard mask, only my elegance and genteel mannerisms.

My life seems like a walking contradiction, a paradox if you will. But, it's all I know and therefore gets me what I want. If I have to be the vainest person breathing, it's what I'll do.

_My golden-haired little ones will be well worth any discomfort and pretense_.

I stand up at the insistence of mother and wait for her and Mary to bring my amazing evening gown over. I know some of mother's lessons in vainness have stuck with me, especially when I see the dress. I shiver, thinking of being a pauper, being adversely affected by the Depression. Money and beauty has its advantages. I'm kept far away from the shantytowns, but that doesn't stop me from seeing some of the indigent people, begging for money in the streets of town.

"Lift your arms, dear," the Madam bades, and I obey. Louis Armstrong's 'All of Me' plays in the background as I dress. My mother isn't the biggest fan, but she understands the soulful voice helps to, somehow, calm me.

The peachy-peril silk shimmers in the light as the gown (with a built-in slip) shimmies down my curvy frame. The tulle with vine-leaf sequin embroidery overlay and capelet is placed over the gown. I slowly twirl in the mirror and truly take my own breath away. In all my fashionable years, I've never felt as regal as I do now.

"You look beyond breathtaking, my daughter." Mother's voice sounds almost fragile. It's something utterly uncommon. "No one will be able to hold the sun, yet alone a candle to you. They're all inferior," she finishes on a whisper.

I look to Mary and see a little bit of envy lighting her eyes. It is understandable. She is a plain girl, not really noticeable. She isn't entirely without looks; she'll make some man content, one day. _Eat one's own heart out._

_And the mask is rigidly in place_ . . .

. .

It is how I'd image it would be. All though elegant affairs, these functions are all the same. Regardless of the monotony, I'm still the most dazzling one in attendance.

We arrive fashionable late. Mother wants to make an entrance. It's not as if our own house is far from this estate. If needed, we could have walked, but that's improper for a family in our position.

Our car pulls up to the mansion and we wait for our driver to open the door. Mother readjusts our ensembles, making sure we are at the very height of respectability. I pull my fur stole tightly around my shoulders. Even though it's late spring-early summer, the evenings in May can be cool.

We step out, father first so he can assist us. When all is situated and our car drives away, it's show time. I make sure my mask is tightly in place, exhibit my 'socializing smile' and make the grand entrance.

After our wraps and such are taken and our names announced, we enter the West Ball Room. Many guests are already milling around. There aren't as many people as usual; some of our affluent acquaintance having lost their wealth in the Depression.

_It's less people for me to compete with_, I think uncharitably. Mother would be pleased.

As expected, many people who see me become speechless. I can't say I fault them. It was also my reaction, although they will never know that. My dress is bona fide silk and awe-inspiringly stunning. My features and outward appearance only match my finery.

We start to mingle and I also observe my supposed competition.

I ponder, in the deep recesses of my mind, how some of these "ladies" think they can pass off their imitation dresses. At least to the Governor's Ball one would think an accomplished lady of considerable monetary means would wear true silk. At smaller, more intimate parties, it is more appropriate to wear lesser dresses; however, this isn't the evening to skive off. Rayon fabric dyed well still cannot pass for true silk, crafted by the most talented of designers.

The cheaper fabric speaks of the woman's class, her husband's failure in not being able to provide the best. I understand we are in the depression and wages must be spent wisely, but one would think a little indulgence on such a grand night would go a long way. If the right people thought you were more than appeared, previously closed doors could become opened.

It's one of the vain thoughts passing through my mind. _Mother would be proud_.

She teaches me to have an eye for fashion and all things vogue. I can imagine the slightly haughty deride on my face as I take in the different evening gowns and sparkling diamonds. It is a face practiced many times to perfection in the mirror. Even though there is a slight downturn to my lips as I look down on others, it doesn't look mean-spirited, but inquisitive.

_Oh, yes, mother is proud_.

The conversations continue and I keep my vigil.

. .

I am allowed no more than two glasses of Champagne at parties. I'm not much of a drinker anyhow. However, the feeling of French champagne bubbles bursting on my tongue is quite exquisite. There is no other feeling like it. Though it can taste somewhat bitter at times, it is an acquired taste. I don't mind the flavor so much; I endure it to savor the tiny sparkling bubbles effervescent on my tongue. I want to giggle from the reactions, but know it will be frowned upon.

I wonder what these gatherings would be like without "refined" alcohol. Prohibition is still effect in the nation, but hardly enforced, at least among the elite and those who have money to sway heads. Father believes legislation will soon be passed to amend the Constitution, overturning alcohol being illegal to buy and sell.

The affluent don't really concern themselves with such limitations, even the politicians in government drink at social obligations. My father likes to point out their blatant hypocrisy, but only in the company of his gentlemen friends and associates, or when reading the newspaper during meals. Mother tries to remind him of decorum, but he hums in acknowledgement while continuing to read his newspaper. He looks up when she starts off on another topic and rolls his eyes good-naturedly and winks at me. I pull my napkin from my lap to cover my mouth. It wouldn't do well for my mother to see me laughing for no apparent reason.

"_It makes one look like a crazy person. Decorum must be kept, Rosalie_." And so I remember that lesson, pulling my mind from frivolous thoughts. I take a quick, dainty sip of my champagne and swallow. I retain the small euphoria the bubbles elicit in my mouth and move on.

All around me people are conversing and chatting: the men converse and the women chat. I don't see the real difference. Men gossip about their contemporaries, those affected detrimentally by the Depression and what our lawmakers are doing to combat such harrowing times. The women gossip about the latest "lady" (a slight ridicule taints their refined tones) to have lost her home, clothes, jewels and standing in society.

We may reside in Rochester, New York, but class distinction and Aires are observed here. This place is no Hooverville. I mull all these thoughts in my head before I am pulled into the chitchat.

"Hasn't your friend, Vera, just married a carpenter?" Evelyn Smith asks, somewhat derisively. I keep my mask firmly in place, never allowing them to see me slip. It's what they want.

My mother, standing next to me, smiles. I know that smile well, it's the same one she has taught me, and I also now wear. Under the thin veneer it states: do you really want to approach such a topic with me; aren't I of higher rank and one little tall-tale about you can be quite unfavorable; _you are to watch your place, dear_. The smile may seem beguiling, saccharine, but women of our class know what it truly means.

"Rosalie and Vera are hardly friends, Evelyn," mother answers for me. Her tongue is sharp, eyes sparkling, warning sent. "Isn't that correct, darling?" Mother looks to me, sweetly, tilts her head to the perfect angle and waits for me to give the proper answer.

"You'd be correct, mother," I respond. Rosalie Lillian Hale is the perfect and most upstanding daughter. She answers her mom with timely and _approved_ ripostes in public. "I would hardly call her a friend. We were acquaintance before her father lost his position at the bank, but now I scarcely speak to her." I don't let my mask fall. Shards pierce something deep in me, but I stay firm.

"Sorry, dear, didn't mean to make libels claims," Evelyn apologizes to me, but she looks to my mother. We may not be the richest guests or have the most linear pedigree, but my mother is close to Queen Bee. It is a position she works to maintain. One cannot say Lillian Hale is a lay-about in the world of class-distinction.

"No offense taken," I say amiably. The line has now been drawn and warnings given.

Kathleen Watson and Elise Graham start to speak, and, once again, I'm able to stand there and look beautiful. It is the main purpose of my being present. I allow the inane nattering to flow around me as I take another sip of my drink. I feign looking over the décor of the West Ball Room, while clandestinely glimpsing at the gentlemen.

It is another talent mother has taught me. "_One must be diligent, Rosalie. It behooves you to know who is most interested, has the most money and will be able to provide you the best. No one else is worth your time or effort. I only tell you this out of love. I never want you to be without, and a lady can never be too careful_."

I observe from the corner of my eye all the handsome gentlemen. Like the ladies present, they come in different sizes, colorings and superiors. Some are overly weight with their dinner jackets straining to maintain buttoned. Others are fit, svelte and revered. I spot my father from across the hall and smile delicately.

Even in his late forties, he is a striking man. More grey is dispersed in his dark hair, but it gives him a distinguished and illustrious look. The Depression turns many a men's hair grey.

He speaks with the local business owners and colleagues from the bank. Though my father is established and recognizable, he is still modest and unpretentious. It aggravates mother at times, but he is immoveable. By day he is a member of the Board of Directors and Trustee for the Depositors at the central bank.

But that is not all my father is: on Sunday's he is a true God-fearing man, giving fairly to our church offerings and tithes; in the morning and evening meals he is a devoted and hands-on father (keeping up with our lives and schedules, making sure to have the proper input); on the third Saturday of every month he is volunteering at a local men's shelter. He is a renowned member of our community and truly respected. Oh, yes, my father can hobnob with all the best, but he can also play baseball with his children.

I may not be a lot alike Richard Hale, but is doesn't mean I don't respect and love him. I love my father, and, most especially, love the violet eye-coloring he passed onto me. It is the most memorable and inimitable shade and contrasts pleasingly with my golden tresses and fair skin.

As I release thoughts about my father I watch as he sees me grins. He gives me his trademark wink and for a mere second, I am his little girl with the golden braids, sitting in his lap on Sunday afternoons. I give my father an elegant smile, making sure not to crease my forehead or brows. His smile turns a little wistful, but there's nothing to be done. He loves me regardless.

I make sure my mask is still firmly in place. I cannot afford to let it drop. I turn from my father's group and take in the fluer-de-lis wallpaper decorating the walls, the patina on the chandeliers, the shiny Italian marble beneath my feet, the slight wave to the many windows allowing the light of the moon to peer in and the many men looking my way.

I readjust the sheer capalet on shoulders, calling attention to my delicate shoulders and slender neck. Even though my dress is backless in a deep v-cut and there's a slight plunge to my neckline, it is still relatively demure. It isn't meant to show skin, but to faintly inveigle and allure.

I watch as some men's eyes glaze over. I would be lying to myself if I say I don't feel some pride. I may be extremely attractive, but mother is right, it's something I work on. Day after day, week after week, and year after year, for as long as I can remember, I've been tutored and berated sharply about what beauty means and how one is suppose to preserve it. I may never find a cure for the common-cold or solve the world's most staggering problems, but I know how to be, act and exploit my looks. It may be vain of me to think such thoughts, but I've earned the right and privilege.

Gentlemen's cheeks turn red as I pass them, gracing them with a courteous smile. My full lips are heavy and painted coral; men and boys alike stare at my mouth. I wonder if they imagine the taste that would await them if they were to sample.

I glance over my shoulder and bat my eye lashes prettily, making sure to keep it as an innocent gesture. I pretend to look for someone and carefully worry my pouty lower lip. Gentlemen start to creep closer to me. I know my effort is paying off.

I turn my head around and start to glide again. The music will start shortly and my dance card is properly full. Some of the future partners I look forward to, and some I could do without. It's a shame, at times, that good-looking isn't tantamount with wealth.

As I make my way back over to my mother, many people greet me.

"Good evening, Miss. Hale," the future heirs to their father's wealth calls out. "You're looking quite stunning." _As if I need any of them to tell me so, _I think vainly. _I outshine even their mother's jewels_.

"Thank you," I reply demurely. Men may say they want a spirited woman, but many of them lie. Perhaps in the confines of the bedroom it is true, but not at public functions. None of their last names want to carry a stain, a scandalous stigma. "You look handsome, yourself," I say to them all.

Kenneth Hayward, Raymond Harrison, Oscar Little, Phillip Roberts, Frederick McAlister, Albert Wallis, Michael Edmonson and Lawrence Andrews were among the most prominent of the community.

When each of them is given my pleasantries, I make my way back to my mother. Her face is shining with triumph; I can tell she is proud of me. Before I reach the circle my mother is frequenting, I stop in my tracks.

To my right I catch a couple that looks as if they are literally sparkling in the light. They are surrounded by people, and even though some of them seem skittish and nervous, they can't seem to look away.

It is usually me having that sort of reaction. The beautiful woman with caramel-colored tresses whispers into her husband's ear before moving away. I wonder what she is going in search of, _or perhaps running from_. Some people's conversation can be quite tedious.

She makes her way around the large crowd that is being entertained by her escort, and walks nearer to me. I want to turn away from her. Such beauty should never be placed next to mine. I should outshine everyone. As if she can hear my vainglorious thoughts, she turns towards me and simply smiles. I catch her eyes and they appear to be Impearl topazes. They sparkle brighter than the champagne she picks up from a passing waiter.

Her evening down is quite beautiful and the emerald silk is offset by her very pale skin. Instead of looking washed out, she looks luminescent. Her evening gloves are a pale while blending in seamlessly into her skin. She's quite breathtaking. I wonder if this ethereal human thinks I'm as glorious as her.

"Hello, Miss. Hale," I hear spoken directly in front of me. Before I can make my escape, she reaches me. I am too lost in my musings of her. "You look beyond angelic tonight," she compliments me. I shake my head minutely.

Is she genuine? I replay her words in my head, listening for any derision, but I can't hear any.

_Perhaps she is honest in her praise_ . . .

"Thank you," I whisper, not out of practice, but real affection. "I'm sorry, but how are you acquainted with my name?" I enquire politely. Her tinkling laugh fills me with a sort of warmth. I haven't formally been introduced, _yet I could be real friends with her_; my heart yearns. I make sure to keep those rogue thoughts from my head. They could shatter my mask, and I've already allowed a little crack in it.

"It's difficult to escape the whisperings of the many men who have slipped your name from their lips," she murmurs conspiratorially. An easy smile comes over her mouth. I will myself not to blush. I'm use to these compliments and have come to expect them. They are the solid truth, after all.

_No one here can compete with my beauty_, I remind myself. It's something my mother encourages me to think. "_It will eventually become your truth, Rosalie_."

"Something one must endure, I'm afraid," I say modestly. She stares at me longer than what is considered polite. Can she see past my armor?

"But true, nonetheless, dear." I want to melt at her sincerity, but I push past the destructive thoughts.

"Thank you, Mrs. Cullen." She gives me the same searching look I gave her earlier.

"And how did you come by my name?" There is a laugh to her tone, but not mocking.

"Your husband, Dr. Cullen, is quite the skilled physician. His talents are appreciated all over Rochester." There is nothing modest in my speech; Dr. Cullen is the most skilled physician. I can see the pride she has for him radiating in her jewel-shimmering orbs.

"Your volunteer service at the hospital, as part of the 'Rochester Plan' under Ms. Baker has been pioneering. You cannot be outstripped by your husband, Mrs. Cullen," I slightly tease, but still honest in my praise. She looks at me in awe. I wonder if she thinks me a vapid, senseless socialite, not familiar with current events.

I may be vain and self-centered, but I make sure to keep up on current events and new-worthy stories. It's part of my daily regimen. My father insists that I am knowledgeable in things other than decorum and beauty, even though many women of my station are not really informed.

"I find myself flattered beyond words, Miss. Hale," she gushes.

"Please," I beseech her. "I speak the truth." She gives me a wide, endearing smile.

"Be that as it may, I wonder how we have not met as of yet. Rochester isn't the smallest of places, but I know we have some acquaintances in common." She's right. The Cullen's may not have as much money or prestige as the Hale's, but they are still readily accepted. It's not often when they attend social events or dinner parties, therefore, their company is sought after and a welcomed addition.

"Our schedules must not align properly. Have you met my father and mother?"

"I have . . . your parents are both lovely." There is a little tightness around her eyes. My father is often lovely company, but mother can be quite trying. If she wasn't among the elite ladies, I'm not sure she'd be as welcomed. I don't call her out, but let it lay.

"Thank you. Should I pass on your regards?"

"Please do, dear."

"It was delightful to have met you, Mrs. Cullen, and long overdue," I add endearingly. I haven't spoken so much truth to 'competition' in a great while. There is something about her that brings out the veracity in me.

_No one here can compete with my beauty_, I play on repeat in my mind. I cannot allow her to disintegrate my armor completely.

"And you as well, Miss. Hale." The ethereal beauty looks over her shoulder and to her husband. I watch as they share a secret, loving moment. "I best be off. One can never tell the trouble Carlisle will get into with me not there to take care of him." Her words are said with jest, but there is a deep adulation there. I feel almost as if I'm intruding on their époque.

I look over her shoulder and glance at her significant other. I'm almost as speechless as when I look at her. It isn't the first time I've seen them, but one's memory seems to never do justice to their looks.

His blonde hair is combed neatly to the right and falls into his eye. It only improves his appearance, which seems all but impossible. His complexion is the envy of every woman and his tall, fit frame makes them want to swoon.

My finger traces the outline of my bottom lip; I need to be sure no drool is seeping out.

_Utterly embarrassing_. These Cullen's have me tossing out my social norms.

The Doctor's gaze slides over to me and he grins handsomely. The unconscious urge to squeeze my legs together quickly flitters through my head. _Strange things are these_.

I return the smile and turn away. I will be on the brink of wholly stupid if I look at him any longer.

"Enjoy the rest of your evening, Mrs. Cullen," I rush ineloquently. My mother would have been horrified. I turn and start to walk away. I can only imagine how angry she'd be if she knew my body's reaction and my spilt-second naughty thought.

"You too, dear." She sounds as if there is a tinkling giggle stuck in her throat, and perhaps she susses out my reaction to the handsome doctor. I can't be the only one to behave as stupidly.

_No one here can compete with my beauty_, I tell myself over and over. By the time I reach mother, my face is composed and lacking uncertainties. I am Rosalie Lillian Hale again.

I grudgingly join in on the conversation, but hide the reluctance behind my mask. Five minutes pass before the small-piece orchestra starts to play the first stanza of the opening dance.

And the Governor's Ball continues . . .

. . .

"Yes, Lillian," I hear my father answer. I can imagine him undoing his tie and pulling off his dinner jacket as he speaks. "Royce has mentioned that his son is returning from Harvard, but why does it matter so?" There is silence, and all I hear is slight shuffling.

My mother's voice starts to speak, but I cannot make out her words. She whispers softly; I can feel my aggravation pick up. I know it is wrong of me to ease-drop, but I feel as if mother is arranging something.

"He'll be coming the middle of September, starting out as an executive." Why would mother be concerned about father's boss's son? "He's said to be high-spirited, yet dedicated to things he sets his mind to. I only hope he settles in nicely at the bank. We don't need more upheaval than necessary, especially with the Depression still grasping the Nation."

They start to talk about other things and the nature of my father's business. Usually I find interest, but I'm tired and my eyes are staring to droop. The night has been long, successful and slightly surprising.

I tip-toe back to my room and close the door slowly so it doesn't squeak. I remove my night robe and place it on the day bed. I crawl into bed and let out a relieved breath.

Once again, I was successful in not embarrassing my family, father's name and myself. Several rogue thoughts came into my mind, but I was able to push them away; I am positive no one was able to see through my mask, my society armor that's been polished to perfection.

_Well, not all. Esme Cullen seemed to see more than I desired_. _It's past, and neither here nor there. _

The other women at the party probably think me vain, intentionally so; and the men either thought I was beautiful to the extreme, well-mannered, or a proper wife they would like to obtain. I have a role to play and I've mastered it to completion.

I never doubt I am absolutely stunning. I've even had talent scouts try and woo me (mother claims that isn't befitting for someone like me and I tend to agree), but they don't matter. Everything is a means to an end, and I have my end goal. The moon knows the intimate details of said goal: I want to be a mother; plain and simple.

I want to cuddle a baby in my arms and nuzzle their soft head. I want to watch my little one takes nourishment from me before falling sleep in my arms. I want to love and adore a child that is the product of my affection and attention. And unlike my mother, I want him or her to be simply happy. Of course I never want my child to need anything, but being born into wealth should help him or her along.

Many socialites only want to wine, dine, party, and hobnob to their heart's content, but it is only a means to an end for me. Oh, yes, I'll be forever proud – it's been drilled into me for as long as I can recall – but I'll love my little one's more than my beauty. It is what I was born to do; Rosalie Lillian Hale (my innate version): mother extraordinaire.

My eyes drift close and my mind begins a familiar replay of golden-haired little children reaching out to me, begging me to simply love them.

_Le sigh_.

* * *

><p><span>Author's Ramblings:<span>Hope you liked the second chapter. It was fun, but challenging to write. So much research went into this chapter, it isn't even funny. I'm trying to make things are accurate as possible. Also, I know Rosalie seems very vain, but stick with the story. I'm just laying the foundation. We will see a lot more of her mindset.

I like to thank those who reviewed the first chapter. They were most appreciated. They caused my writer's heart to swell! Truly, thanks, lovelies. If you have the time, my readers, please leave a review. They are so inspiring, and I can't even intimate how much in writing!

Thanks again. Lots of love to all the readers!

Some relative facts:

(1) This is the dress I imagined Rosalie wearing. It is quite stunning. Even though it was made in 1933, the fashion was still the same one year earlier. Fashion didn't evolve as quickly back then, due to lack of funds during the Depression and the War.

http: / / www (dot) philamuseum (dot) org / collections / permanent / 65180 (dot) html?mulR=2663%7C59

(2) Franklin D. Roosevelt was Governor of New York at the time until elected President in November 1932.

(3) It wasn't against the law (Prohibition) to drink alcohol, only to buy and sell it; although law enforcement hardly enacted the law. Politicians did indeed drink, often at social functions and such. Prohibition was constitutionally amended at the end of December 1933.

(4) The "Rochester Plan" (as it was known outside of Rochester) is indeed very real. Under the direction of Marion Bradley Baker at Rochester General Hospital, Ms. Baker took a group of volunteers and made them into a nation-recognized organization – The Volunteer Aide Service. It became a model for other hospitals nationwide.

(5) The information on hairstyles and such is also fact. Women's hair was molded closely to the head in the 1920's ending in 1931, until more volume and curls started being added. Womanly curves were also more in vogue.


	3. She Has Wings

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns everything in the land of Twilight. No copyright infringement is intended.

**She Has Wings**

"_For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required: and to whom men have committed much, of him they will ask the more."_

_- Luke 12:48 (KJV)_

"_Be as a bird perched on a frail branch that she feels bending beneath her, still she sings away all the same, __knowing__ she has wings.__"_

_- Victor Hugo_

Rosalie – Friday – May 1932

Friday afternoons is the time I breathe the easiest. I release an actual sigh of relief. Even though I still have an image to maintain, it is my time off, if you will: a time to do what I please, as long as I keep it in the realms of respectability. Mother spends her afternoon volunteering for some organization. It is somewhat required of our family, being in the financial situation we enjoy.

"_People would look down on us otherwise, Rosalie. Where much is given, much is required_," Mother often quotes.

_The Book of Luke_, I think. _Our family is well-versed in scripture. Even if we say it in a negative connotation_, I think hypocritically of my mother. It's a scripture by which my father actually governs his life.

Of course, I also bring it back to me. _Does that apply to my looks_, I ask myself? I have been given much in the visually-stimulating department. People tell me all the time how beautiful and beguiling I am. I'll smile at them artificially. Is that wrong of me, thinking they are telling me something I already know and have had drilled into me since I could speak. Am I required more from my beauty? If so, I couldn't even guess as to what it is.

In a town of over 300,000 I am fairly well-known. I haven't created anything, I'm not an outspoken activist for any cause, yet people recognize me as I walk past them.

Men smile at me bewitchingly, as if I cast some spell upon them. Women and girls alike look at me with envy and scorn. Some look at me with pity (as if knowing some secret about me and the burden I carry), while others truly smile. The array of reactions is something I've gotten my entire life. It becomes second nature to me at times, when I want to be left alone. But other times I crave the reactions, needing the vain validation that comes along with the adoration.

Beauty and maintaining _said beauty_ have always been at the forefront of my education.

My mother is responsible for most of my upbringing and education. She tells me, from the moment of my birth and from seeing my unique beauty at so young an age, that I will be something special. I often think about being "special".

Sometimes I feel silly for being "special" for something I can't even physically control. If I were ugly, would my mother pay less attention to me? Would I be like Mary (my hairdresser) and take envy in other people's looks? Would people know my name, anyway, and still want to be in my company? More importantly, would I be okay with being unattractive? Would I crave to be beautiful if I wasn't born into it?

It is difficult to refute the many doors opening up for me because of my looks. People are attracted to gorgeous people, and not always in the romantic sense; alluring people have a charisma that attracts the attentions of others in everything they do. I can simply be bending over to pick up something I dropped, on accident (truly), and jaws will come unhinged. It is amusing at times, but also pitiable.

If I'm being honest with myself, I've come to expect the attention. I can always claim to be a product of my environment, that everyone around me conditions me to be this way, but I like to believe that even though I'm vain, I can take some sort of responsibility for my actions.

My father has taught me better than that, even if mother disagrees. She thinks if I admit fault, it shows weakness. Perhaps she is right in showing some weakness, but it hasn't lessened the attention I get from everyone: males and females inclusive.

I like being above the fray (the normality the Depression has brought) and being noticed for something in a world that has gone mad. Even though I'm kept from the everyday downtrodden and beggars, I still read about current events in the Newspaper; father sees to it. I could be one of those women, ravaged and exploited to the sickly environment, but I'm not and my father makes sure to point it out. He is the antitheses of my mother in such regards. She would have me a spoiled, well-preserved princess, sitting on the proverbial thrown of Rochester's Privileged society. And though that is my public persona and I act it very well, father makes sure there is more to me.

Mother has prepared, drilled and worked me tirelessly into what she believes is the perfect high society girl. Mother has done well; there is no denying that, I can be as conceited as the next person. However, father has made sure there is a deeper layer to my pretty, perfect package.

.

While girls and women, my age, are less educated than men, father has made sure it isn't the case with me. My mother, in the beginning, argued, saying I didn't "_need any more education_" . . . my "_purposes in life lay elsewhere_". She deems me smart enough for a "_woman of her breeding and station_".

I know how to take care of a household, even though it isn't completely necessary with my family, what with our hired help, but I still have the knowledge. My head is filled with fashion, make-up, proper decorum and how to make everyone notice me in every which way. I know how to arrange and organize parties and how to cultivate productive acquaints in society. Mother does very well to see that every aspect of my socialite education is perfect.

Where society deemed women to have limited education and enough for them to run a respectable household, father wanted more. I attended and complete Finishing school at the age of fifteen in New York City, but I've also completed my required higher education. I didn't get to go to private schools (like my brothers), but father made sure to hire the best tutors available.

"_I will see her given every advantage, Lillian_!" father demands. My young, impressionable ears of fourteen years old listen in rapt attention. I know it's wrong to ease-drop, but I cannot help my curiosity. "_I have conceded to you on many things concerning my Rose, but I draw the line here. My girl will have the best education, and I'll hear no more complaints. She's to attend Finishing school next summer; granted, but after, she will finish her general education. She needs to know more than the proper place settings at a dinner and the perfect colors to highlight her complexion. Am I understood, Lillian_?" my father finally stops to breathe. I wonder how he is able to get all that out in one breath.

I listen to see what mother will say. She can be an outspoken woman, but when her husband usually lays down the law, in such a forceful manner, she knows to pay heed. I want to peek around the corner to see her face, but I refrain. It won't do well to be caught.

After a few tense moments pass, and she says nothing, I start to feel hope. Where some girls, my age, may be content with the limited education they receive, I'm not. I've always been inquisitive, wanting to know how things work and how they're put together.

I remember once, telling my mother how I wanted to look under the hood of a car. "_I want to see how it runs and is put together, mommy_," my excited voice begged. Instead of seeing an exasperated smile like I expected, she took me home, washed my mouth out with lye soap and told me to never say such uncouth things. "_I never want to hear that again, Rosalie! You are better than some common mechanic! To think my daughter wants to tinker with some unrefined, grease vagrant_!" she exclaims wildly. I never mentioned my fascination again.

Now that she is at an impasse with my father, I'm ever grateful to him. Like he says, he doesn't interfere with her raising me often, but when he does, it's law. After my mother left in a huff, I took the chance of getting in trouble for listening-in and kissed my father all over his face. I was beyond grateful I would get to continue my education. He laughs boisterously before kissing my forehead.

"_It's my right as a father, darling, and we have the means. You're education shouldn't differ that much from your brothers. One will never know the situation we'll be placed in, and I shall have you educated and with every advantage at your disposal, Rose, baby_." I never loved my father more than in that moment. He doesn't tell me often of his love, but his actions always speak louder.

.

Once I finished my general education in April, my father gave me his permission to take university courses at University of Rochester. I was even more ecstatic then being able to finish my high-school career.

It's possible I won't finish my degree, but just having the option to further my education and interested pursuits is quite the honor. My father is progressive in that way to his other contemporaries. Some would think I wouldn't be excited to have to go to school, but they're wrong. Everything I learn and excel at will help me to become a better mother. It is always my end goal, no matter what other pursuits I may have in my life. Nothing has ever eclipsed that dream.

I take my father's admonition to heart, "_One will never know the situation we'll be placed in_ . . ." So I take every opportunity given to me. I want to have the knowledge and fortitude to take care of my little one's in any situation. It's like a driving force inside my chest and keeps my heart beating, my lungs filling with oxygen.

With my goals and aspirations in the forefront of my mind, I place my hat over my beautifully-curled blonde tresses and head to the main family parlor. Mother is there, taking her tea before she's off. I once asked to go with her, wanting to also help with what she was doing, but I was instantly shot down.

"_There isn't a need for you, Rosalie_," she spoke, but not harshly, just matter-of-factly. "_I go because it looks good on your father and our family name. When it falls to you to uphold your husband's name, then you will be of service. As of now, you need to focus your attentions on landing that infamous husband. It's imperative you get one with deep pockets and loads of ambition, darling. You wouldn't want your beauty to be for naught, right, darling_?"

I didn't respond, but nodded along. She may have wanted me married off because it would raise her position in society even higher and have us set for life, but I also have other ambitions. Everything I do is for my future children, and not for my future social-standing. I want my babies happy and healthy.

So I continue with my vanity, appeasing my mother and looking for that elusive husband, which will be able to provide for me and my golden little ones.

"I'm off, mother," I report. She knows I'm off to campus to finish my assignment. I give her my most dazzling smile. "Do I look presentable enough?" I ask, knowing I'll be able to leave sooner and without any truly snide comments.

She gives me the once-over before taking a tiny sip of her tea. "You look well, darling. Did you get enough sleep last night? You look a little peaked?" I muster up my courage, telling myself _I'm the most beautiful person ever_. It gets me where I need to be with her. It gives me the strength to continue, as odd as it sounds. It's always been my mask to hide behind; something that gave me a purpose and ground to stand on where mother is concerned. It helps me to stay somewhat detached.

I don't, however, tell her why I'm weary.

"Plenty, mother," I answer efficiently and politely. "I'm anxious to finish my assignment. I need to make sure I'm totally ready for Saturday next's dinner party," I fib expertly. It is a necessary evil where Lillian Hale is concerned. She gives me a pleasing smile before deeming me appropriate.

I pick up my bag, make sure not to let it wrinkle my outfit and head for the waiting car to take me away.

"Be sure to keep safe, Rosalie. Keep your eyes and ears opened," she admonishes. One would think she was referring to my safety, but she isn't. She means to keep myself pure because "_career women aren't the chastest_" and "_they have little regard for finding a suitable husband_". She tells me to be safe so I don't allow myself to turn out as such, and to keep my ears and eyes opened for a suitable match. Sometimes her words can be trying.

_I am the most beautiful person ever_, I tell myself, trying to give my heart the strength and proper decorum she seeks after. It is the only way I know to stay afloat with the madam.

"Perfect, darling," she coos as my mask comes over my visage, "beautiful, striking like a tigress, yet entirely demure." It is the essence of my armor.

"Goodbye, mom," I say courteously. She frowns a little at the title "mom", but that makes me somewhat happy within. It is my little rebellion. She never approved of that term. "_It sounds almost trite and common_," she told us three children.

I leave before she can say anything else, or rebuke me. Father would smile at my effort, along with Henry and Benjamin (my little brothers). We take little rebellion where we can.

I greet my driver/sometimes bodyguard cordially, and tell him we're finally off. He chuckles and says, "That sounds about right, Miss. Rose."

Mother would flip if she hears Clarence refer to me by my first name, but I absolutely insist. It's one of those little revolts I'm proud of. I giggle at Clarence's double-meaning and think we may all be "finally off our minds", at least when mother is present.

"Are we going to the downtown or River Campus," Clarence asks. I tilt my head to the side and bat my eyelashes rapidly. He knows the answer immediately. "Watch out, young men, Miss. Rose is about to blow you away," he jokes and causes me to actually laugh unladylike.

Since 1930 and with the completion of the new River campus, the university has been separated. We women take our classes at the downtown location, while the men have been relocated to the River campus. Even though I take classes on the downtown campus, I am headed to the other one. The Rush Rhees Library holds what I need.

"You know me all too well, and I shan't flirt too much, Clar," I say slyly. "I actually have a purpose today."

He looks at me covertly. "You mean other than the purpose you gave your mama?" I stick my nose in the air and pretend to be affronted. "Thus the reason for you being 'peaked'," he joshes. It's not easy concealing things from Lillian Hale.

"I don't know to what you are referring, Clar," I say loftily. "And you're a dirty ease-dropper." He just chuckles at my feigned attempt to come off angry and haughty.

He continues to drive and smile covertly. He knows exactly what I'm up too. He does have to follow me, while "protecting" me, but he gives me some space. Sometimes I feel as if Mr. Clarence Ryder is my best friend. He may be big, burly, quite intimidating and a little on the ugly side, but he respects and loves me. _I know he does_.

We finally pull up to the campus and I wait for him to come open my door. I may love him, also, but he does get paid to do his job, and I could never let it get back to my mother that he wasn't. I would be crushed if I ever lost my friend. He lets me have my rebellions and keeps them secret.

"I'll be right in behind you, Miss. Hale," he informs me in what is considered the polite response. I give him a quick head nod before continuing on. Etiquette must be kept, after all, in public. I carry my bag and start for the Library. I can hear the bells ringing above in the Rush Rhees Tower as I make my way inside. It's twelve on the dot; I can feel the anticipation start to build within.

Some people may think my "rebellion" dim-witted and infantile, but I don't care a jot. It makes me feel happy and free; even if I get to spread my wings and fly only a few feet.

I can feel my regal chin start to rise as my thoughts progress. I make sure to keep my façade tight and mask in place. I am among possible suitors.

_I am the most beautiful person ever_, I have on continuous replay. I have been trained well. I can hear mother speaking in my head as she warns about my thoughts and actions never being simply my own or safe. "_They see any small imperfection, Rosalie Lillian. You think your thoughts private and secluded, but it isn't true. They've been trained to see weaknesses, even in thoughts. Keep it all at bay, dear, and think as I've trained you to. Put on your regal armor and watch as it outshines everyone else_."

I've been trained very, _very_ well.

I time my arrival perfectly. Rush Rhees Library is practically empty, now that the lunch hour has settled. Not many people are on campus to begin with, what with it being the beginning of Summer holiday. I take it all in as I keep walking.

Before I know it, I'm in the stacks and headed for the Otis Traction Elevator. I'm not very fond of it, but it wouldn't do for me to sweat having to climb the stairs. As I walk, I catch the gazes of the little population in the library. Some of their eyes are slightly glazed over and some have their jaws unhinged. One would think I'd tire of this response, but I don't (_well, much_). Honestly, I enjoy the attention of standing out. It gives me the validation that I'm actually worth someone's attention.

I may be bold and softly confident to those who observe me, but even I need the validation, probably more so than most. I have expectations and need to know I'm living up to those.

A demure smile blooms over my lips as I stop in front of the elevator. Now that my public spectacle is done, I seek solitude. Even though Clarence will be near, I'll have privacy.

I push the up button and wait for it to retrieve me. I take deep breaths. When it arrives, I pull open the green pocket door and step in. I press for my intended floor and start to panic as the pocket door and scissor gate close automatically.

"It is okay, Rose," I tell myself. "Only a short ride up." Not known to many, I have a great fear of enclosed spaces, and the elevator isn't the biggest of spaces. When little, I once got locked in the pantry of our kitchen. I was curious and wanted to explore. It took hours for someone to find me. When finally found, my voice was horse and my nails scraped off. Dirty tear tracks lined my salt-encrusted face. My father held me in his arms for hours, attending to my rational fears.

Still, to this day, I become slightly hysterical if enclosed for too long in a tight space.

Once the bell chimes and the scissor gate opens, the mint green pocket doors and I rush out. It is one time I don't care how undignified I appear. The door closes and I take a moment to collect myself, making sure my mind and emotions are in check. Once refined, I start out.

My mask doesn't last for too long, but I can't see anyone else around. I am excited to start to fly. Once I reach my intended section, I can feel my childish anticipation start to become unmanageable. I can giggle for how silly I feel.

I turn the corner and my finger finally enclose around my form of rebellion. A little giggle slips out before I can stop it. _I'm utterly hopeless_, I think. I go to my regular table and sigh when I see no one around; not even Clarence.

In my disobeying hands is a copy of the Owners Handbook for the Austin's Twelve-Six 1931 model. I know it sounds strange, an owner's handbook in a library, but it was a foreign car and I was in the automotive section. An exuberant smile breaks out over my full lips (yes, I had finally grown into them). This is my rebellion. I can still taste the lye soap in my mouth as I open the cover and start to read my little bible.

This book and 'Morris 8 and Minor Service and Maintenance Manuel' is the wind that allows my little wings to soar. My mother has no idea that I found a way to learn about cars and how to service them. I may not be able to literally get under the hood, but I am pretty darn close.

My heart beats rapidly at the thought.

I hear a slight noise to my left and the book falls from my fingers. My heart rate increases even more. I feel like a spy going under cover. I casually look over my shoulder, then right and left before not seeing anyone. Even though my hands sweat and my heart pounds, I appear calm. It is a trick learned while lying to the madam. Again, it is a necessary evil.

I allow my mask to rise as I let the thoughts of my beauty and appearance overtake me. When composed, I sit there for several minutes, waiting for someone to come into sight. I hide the books under my bag and examine my perfectly-manicured fingernails. My hands are quite attractive and delicate. My ring size is four; mother had it measured when I turned seventeen (several months prior). She anticipates me getting married soon.

After ten minutes and with no other noises interrupting my solitude, I take out the books and start to read again. My mask drops as I lose myself in a world of _grease_, three-cylinder transmissions, rigid front and back axles, coil ignition and fabric-bodied saloons.

Four hours pass as if they are simply minutes. It amazes even me that I can become so lost in a world so entirely different than my own. I shut the book and stretch a little. I can feel my muscles lengthening from my crapped position. I even slouched over while reading. I can see mother's hair turning grey from such a notion. I allow myself a rogue giggle before I know it's time to lock it all away.

_I so enjoy my Friday afternoons_.

. .

I make my way back to the scary elevator after I've put everything back and perfected myself. I push the button and wait for it to arrive. I can feel myself start to shake and my hands start to sweat. I cannot stand this reaction. I straighten my spine and will myself to calm down. I feel worry creeping along my spine, and I, of course, ignore it even more. I feel as if I have a steel rod for a backbone instead of cartilage and marrow. The bell chimes and I slide the door open. My feet seem to hesitate, but I overrule them. I step into the small box and gulp noticeably as the scissor gate and pocket door slide close.

"This is completely disreputable, Rose," I chide myself. Talking aloud seems to help as the elevator starts to move and lower me to the main level. "You mustn't ever let mother find out about the car manuals," I lecture, just waiting and praying this contraption opens soon. "She'd have a conniption: hysterics indeed!"

I laugh embarrassingly before all goes dark.

Blood-curling screams leave my lips before I can even think to stop it.

* * *

><p><span>Author's Notes:<span> Hello, lovelies. Sorry it's taken me a while to post the next chapter. Hopefully the edit job is fine and the tense(s) aren't totally messed up. Please, if you find something, let me know.

Anyhow, what'd you think of the chapter? I know it seems like a filler, but it gives us more of Rose's past and a deeper look into her mind. I really enjoyed writing it and doing tons of research. I learn so much.

So, I want to dedicate this chapter to my only reviewer for chapter two: AIL. It is really so much appreciated, love! Also, thanks to those who read and add me to their alerts/favorites. I hope, if you have the time, you'll let me know your thoughts. They truly help me to shape this story. Please, don't make me beg . . . LOL. Too late, right? (*wink*).

Lots of love sent to everyone! Next update will be next week – promise.

_Updated: Saturday, March 30 2012_

.

Factual Notes:

(1) University of Rochester is a private college founded in 1850. Thanks to the efforts of Susan B. Anthony and Helen Barrett Montgomery, the first female students were admitted in 1900. In 1930 the River Campus was officially completed and male students were moved to the location, while the female population continued to attend classes at the downtown location.

(2) The Rush Rhees Library began construction in 1927 and was dedicated in 1930. Its tower is the most noticeable on the River Campus, standing at 186 feet. The Otis Traction Elevator is real and original to the Library. It was also completed in 1930 and is still functional today.


	4. Invisibile Boundary

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns everything in the land of Twilight. No copyright infringement is meant.

**Invisible Boundary**

"_I learned this, at least, by my experiment: that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success __unexpected__ in common hours. He will put some things behind, will pass an invisible boundary . . . If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them.__"_

_- Henry David Thoreau_

Rosalie – May – 1932

The elevator stops moving . . . all is still. The light above me is out, and I can't even see my hand in front of my face. The absolute terror creeps in like waves crashing over a barrier reef. I feel them hard and steady as they crash impetuously and violently over my frame. My bag and jacket falls to the ground and the banging noise causes me to scream again. I can feel my legs give out as I fall aimlessly to the carpeted ground.

I wait in agony for something to happen, but nothing is occurring. It's as if the building has shut down and I'm utterly alone. _It can't be possible_, I tell myself frantically, fisting my hands in my day skirt. My silk shirt is probably wrinkled, but I cannot care, I am about to lose my mind.

More time elapses, and I have no idea how much. With my fears comes my absence of rationality. It's as if I'm a little child again, clawing the walls of the thick, insulated pantry, trying helplessly to get out.

"Hello?" I scream, knowing that it only comes out as a squeak due to my fright. No one answers and the silence still reins.

Tears start to prickle my eyes; it was only a matter of time. My hat slides off my head as it slams against the back wall of the elevator. Perhaps if I hit my head hard enough, I can knock myself out until someone finds me.

Knowing that isn't a plausible action, I allow the fear to completely over take me. I don't try to hold anything back and I don't try to be brave. I want the panic to overtake me wholly. I remember information, from one of my courses, explaining the reason why a body faints: the mind becomes overwhelmed and to deal with the stress the mind blanks out and allows the body to rest. It's exactly what I need right now.

I know it's ridiculous for a woman, on the verge of trying to find a life partner, being scared of something as useless as the dark and enclosed spaces. But I don't care about being ridiculous because I actually feel no prudence. Irrationality courses through my veins and mind. I try to apply my mask because fainting isn't happening, but even that doesn't work.

I am uselessly and utterly reduced to a sniveling ball on the ground. I can only imagine how affright I look and what a hag I must resemble.

"Nothing's working," I cry weakly. I crawl over to the scissor gate and start to pound on it. "Please," I beg piteously. "Hear me!"

Again nothing happens and I feel myself start to lose any shred of hope. I now have absolutely no idea of the time. My hand bangs feebly before my strength gives out. I pull my knees to my chest and hide my face.

I start to hum Johannes Brahms's lullaby. In my mind, I picture a little golden-haired child, sleeping peacefully as I rock her to sleep. Her little eye-lids flutter like butterflies wings as she dreams of impossible things. I look at the little angel and become astonished. I can't understand how something so pure, beautiful and angelic can come from me . . . She's even more gorgeous than I could ever imagine. And even if she isn't pleasing to other people's aesthetics, I know it wouldn't matter one jot. She is the most precious thing in my world. I love her eternally and like no other.

Scraping noises start to sound in my ear. I can't understand why I would hear scarping while rocking my child to sleep. It continues as I try to rock steadily and not wake my darling.

The scraping becomes screeching and I have to cover my ears. It's too loud and pulls me away from my picturesque dream. I want to scream for him or her to stop with the noises. And before I can open my mouth to make the demand a hand closes over my wrist, pulling my hand from my ears.

I slowly feel a little of the dream receding along with my fear. I open my eyes and see a head directly in front of me. Their head is back-lit from the light flooding into the elevator. My knees fall down; I become lost in the imperial-jeweled eyes in front of me. It's all I can see.

"Esme," I mumble emotively. I can only imagine how vulnerable she must think me.

"No, love," I hear spoken gently and in a masculine voice. I am once again floored. I feel like the only thing waiting is for the floor to open up and finally swallow me whole.

"Sorry," I mumble for so many things I'm not even sure of.

"Are you able to stand; or are you hurt more than I'm able ascertain?" I want to answer his question, but his speech and tone are glorious to listen to. I want to sink into his voice and be wrapped in it endlessly.

"Love . . . can you hear me?"

I breathe out sadly, knowing I can't stay in his voice forever. I blink to readjust my eyes to the intruding light. I hope not to get a headache later.

"Y-Yes." I hate that I sound so weak and puerile to such a refined and caring voice. "Sorry," I apologize again. I can't stop making a fool of myself, not that appearance is any different. "Something happened to the elevator and I became stuck," I explain stupidly. He probably already figured it out. "I think I'm able to stand," I answer his original question.

His grasp slides from my wrist to my hand. It seems to all but swallow my own hand. I never felt so tenuous before. I feel more delicate than ever. His left hand forms around my elbow and after he counts to three, I start to lift myself up with his help.

My legs seem a little unreliable as I accidently tumble into his chest. I'm quick to make apologies as I think how muscular he is.

_Goodness me, I need to get my head together. This is most improper, Rose_. I lift my head from his rumbling chest and look up at him in surprise.

_Is he laughing_ . . .

His face, however, is serious, softened in what looks like concern. I could be confused. I think he was laughing earlier when, indeed, he wasn't.

"I have you," he murmurs, and I'm lost to him. I am shamelessly floating in his soft voice and don't feel like ever retreating back to the shores. _Beyond glorious_.

These actions are bizarre to me, and I can't understand what's happening. One minute I'm a frighten kitten locked in a dark box, and the next, I'm hanging onto a boy I hardly know and not wanting to be taken from his shelter.

I must have lost more of rationale then I previously thought.

"Thank y-you," I stammer horrendously. "Could we please leave the elevator? I'm f-frightened of small, enclosed spaces." I should be ashamed to tell this person something so personal about myself, but I feel as if he won't make fun of me or exploit it. It's as if he can hold my confidences; not that there are many.

"Of course, ma'am. Allow me to assist you." I want to ask him not to call me "ma'am". It makes me sound old and decrepit. I want him to go back to calling me "love". I wonder if he knows how special it makes a girl feel, especially spoken as he speaks. He makes a girl feel like the very center of his world.

I watch as he respectfully straightens out my wrinkled skirt. My shirt is beyond hopeless wrinkled, but still fully intact. After he exams me, to make sure I'm presentable, he bends down and retrieves my bag and fallen hat. He switches my things to one hand before fastening his hand around my waist.

I let out a stupid little gasp. I blush a little. It's not something I do often and feel ridiculous.

This situation usually comes with dancing and nothing else. I'm not sure how to act or even respond. I do know, however, that I like the way his sure hand feels around my shaken body. I feel as if nothing can hurt me again.

_Impossible, I know, but there, nonetheless_.

He starts to lead, and I follow like a scared little lamb. Is it wrong for me to be so docile and fragile-like?

"Almost there," he reassures me. It feels as if his mouth speaking directly into my ear, but he isn't. We walk a little ways away from the death contraption and further into the stacks.

"I don't care how much I sweat next time," I say shakily, trying to be unaffected and failing miserably. I hobble along. "I'll take the stairs. What's a little perspiration compared to that mechanical nightmare?" We stop and my stranger laughs deeply. I want to be affronted, but realize I like that I can make someone laugh out of goodwill and honesty, not practiced, artificial lines in front of my mirror.

"Sounds like a sensible plan." I give him an actual shy smile before looking down. I'm not sure how to act or what to even say. I feel as if all my training and previous ambitions have fled from my mind, deserting me.

"I may be able to stand on my own, now," I speak softly for some peculiar reason. There is no one around us and the sun looks to be fading over the horizon. I can't see his face, but I know he will have a sheepish look on his beautiful visage. His shuffling feet tell me as much.

He gently removes his hand from around my waist and starts to move back. I become a little unsteady, and he is right back where he started, as if he hadn't ever let me tumble. I want to bury my head in his chest and cry for some unknown reason. I don't know what is wrong with my mind or why my mask has abandoned me so effortlessly.

I sigh breathlessly and gather my courage. My head starts to rise and look at him before I hear someone approaching.

"Miss. Rose," I hear called behind my Good Samaritan. I advert my face from looking to him and glance around his frame because he is too tall for me to see over his shoulder.

_Clarence_, my heart sighs. He seems nearly as frantic as I feel. He rushes by us and pulls me into his embrace. This is past the realm of decorum, but I don't care at the moment. I can hear my mother's voice chiding me for making such a spectacle, but I ignore it. My tears start to sting my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I have to retain some flailing dignity.

"Clar," I mumble into his beefy chest. "I'm fine . . ." I leave hanging.

"Did . . . Did this person do anything to you?" he asks, and I can all but see the steam metaphorically pouring from his ears and nostrils.

"No!" I come to my rescuer's defense immediately. I can only imagine the damage Clarence can do to someone. "He assisted me, Clar." I look away from my friend to the other person.

He is blindingly handsome, and _I can hardly stand to look at him_. His little, thankful smile turns into a slight frown, and I wonder if he can read the expressions on my face so openly. I start to feel terrible for thinking such a thought. It's just that I feel like an ugly duckling in his presence.

"I was stuck in the elevator and he, somehow, was able to open it. He didn't leave me alone," I explain softly, overcome by this stranger's kindness and sweet actions. He could have easily left and told maintenance about someone being stuck, but he did. He, at risk in getting hurt himself, opened the elevator door and saved me. I smile stupidly at him. Instead of sneering at my childish answer, he returns my smile with a soft, wobbly one.

Clarence clears his throat and pulls me from my stranger's gaze. I can't help but be a little peeved at Clar; I want to stay lost in the goodness and purity of this stranger.

"Mr. Clar, is it?" the soothing voice asks, and I giggle inappropriately. I haven't heard anyone else refer to him as "Clar" and it simply strikes me as funny.

"Golly, Miss. Rose," my bodyguard truly whines. It makes me laugh even more. He's careful not to curse in front of a lady. I appreciate that about him: he thinks I'm important enough to want to watch his language. "You got people thinking my name is Clar."

"But it suits you so well," I playfully banter back. I appreciate the distraction from thinking about being stuck in a dark, congested, tin elevator. I shiver.

He doesn't say anything in return but smiles indulgently at me.

"The names Clarence Ryder," he clarifies. "This little trouble-maker here just calls me Clar. I tried breaking the girl of the habit, but couldn't. I just assume let the little miss thinks she won. I save my time and attention for bigger battles." I stick my nose up in the air while folding my arms over my chest.

"Poppycock," I say regally. Both of the men laugh at my snobby attitude. I can only imagine how mussed I look with wrinkled clothes and disheveled hair.

"Well, Mr. Ryder, I happened upon the lady while waiting for the elevator myself. When it didn't appear after a while I thought something wrong. I tried listening, to see if there was anything the matter when I heard Miss. Rose humming frightened. I thought something amiss. Be it providence or happenstance, the elevator seemed stopped on my floor. I became worked up and was finally able to pry the door opened."

He continued to explain his side of the story, but I was lost at my name falling from his lips: not Rosalie, but Rose; the name by which I privately called myself. I've never heard it sound so beautiful or enticing. I've also never known myself to be so flighty and smitten with someone. I am someone unrecognizable. _Liberating . . ._

"That's very much appreciated. I don't want her having to walk that far," I hear Clarence say as I tune back into the conversation.

"Walking how far?" I ask, confused.

"I'm going to retrieve the car while this fine lad walks you out side to meet me."

"I'll be sure to see she makes it safely and in working order to you," my rescuer agrees.

I feel panic well up inside me. I don't know how to react or what to say. Clarence looks at me and nods his head, thinking I agree with his plan. Before I can even voice my concerns, he starts to briskly walk away, leaving me alone once more.

I truly and somehow instinctively know I have nothing to fear from this virtual stranger. He can hurt me at any time but hasn't. He's only been the most upstanding gentlemen. Even his attire tells me he is a true gentleman, not that I would think less of him if he were clothed differently.

I sigh in confusion. This is the exact uncertainty I feel around _him_. How am I to act around someone when all I feel in my tummy swarming with insects? How am I to retain my mask of polite, demure, most beautiful girl around him when all I feel is timid, bumbling and (dare I think it) attracted.

He doesn't really give me time to think, which I'm thankful for, before he gently places my hat on my head and smiles. "Shall we, Miss. Rose?" I feel like I'm soaring when he says my name. Is he able to hear my heart trying to pound its way out of my chest? Does he think me as unrefined and idiotic as I feel?

"Please, don't call me Miss. Rose. It makes me feel something I'm not," I whisper shyly. I'm completely honest with him, in that I don't feel like a proper lady around him. I only feel as if I've made a fool of myself and my family's name.

"What shall I call you then . . . love?" I felt unbidden tears come to my eyes. Like a granted boon, he gives something to me that I had wanted to hear again. It sounds like a summer night (peaceful and eternally youthful) when he calls me "love". It must be how every girl feels when that lovely endearment falls from his sculpted lips.

"Rosalie," I answer, too afraid to say "_love is entirely fine_". He studies me, and I can attest he is looking into my heart.

"Are you apposed, for some reason, to me calling you Rose?" he asks calmly. And though he doesn't sound it, I wonder if I've offended him in some manner.

"N-Not at all," I stammer again. I feel as if I'm making the biggest fool of myself. I want to weep with frustration. "It how I usually introduce myself: Rosalie Hale. Although, many people just call me Miss. Hale," I continue to babble.

"So you prefer I call you Miss. Hale, then," he asks. I look down and bite my lips. I wonder if I'll ever be able to redeem myself. I only sink further and there's nothing there to stop the descent. I want to save face by running far from him, but I don't.

I stupidly look up, knowing I'll see disappointment on his face. It surprises me to see quite the opposite. How can someone be even more gorgeous then one initially thought? His entire face is transformed into the most breathtaking smile I'd ever seen; mine included.

"You were joshing me," I clarify with a sheepish and relieved look plastered against my pinking cheeks. He nods and I nod in return.

He holds out my jacket, still in his hands, and waits to assist me.

I turn and slide my arms in. When I am situated, I turn around and he starts to button it up for me. I want to weep at his tenderness and soft affection. No man (sans my father, brothers and Clar) treats me with such respect and dignity.

Most either look at me as if I'm the greatest prize to win, or as if I'm this unapproachable goddess to be put on a pedestal. And though I usually encourage this behavior, I seem quite the opposite with _him_.

When he's finishes lacing up my buttons, he stops to take in every feature of my face. I feel as if he is about to paint me – he studies me so intently.

"Rose," I finally answer, and with some decorum. I smile at my overwhelming behavior. "I would never be opposed to you calling me Rose."

"Rose it shall be then. Perhaps a few Rosalie's to make the situation interesting." I give him an encouraging smile.

"One can never forget 'love'," I finally say, finding the courage to be so bold in his eyes.

"There is also that." His hands fall from my lapels before settling naturally at his side. He seems impossibly tall. He is quite regal and beyond breathtaking. It's as if he knows how magnificent he is, and yet, doesn't care. I can't understand this behavior. My mother has raised me to be quite the opposite. But I find it fresh and quite alluring. His countenance pulls me in like nothing ever has before.

"Edward," he speaks his name. I would place my hand on the holy Bible and swear in blood that I have never heard such a name sound as mesmeric and enthralling as it does when he speaks it.

I tentatively reach my hand out and wait for him to reciprocate. I don't have to wait long. He looks as if he hesitates for a moment, as if he is unsure about touching me. I gaze at him more intently, but the look is cleared from his face. I can be wrong. It won't be the first time this afternoon.

"It was wonderful to have met you, Edward," I speak, absolutely loving the way my tongue and lips caress his name. My cheeks become pink from the thought and I turn away.

"You as well, Rose." I look back to him from under my eye-lashes. It is a move I have practiced hundreds of times in front of my vanity mirror under the direction of my mother, but feels like the first time as I bashfully do it now.

"Thanks for everything, and most especially, saving me. I felt as if I were going spare in there." I point in the direction of the tin trap.

"It was only a pleasure. Think nothing of it, Rose. I would gladly do it again."

My smile turns mega-watt at his emphatic declaration. I want to say something brilliant and encouraging, but find myself insufficiently lacking. All I can do is continue to smile.

I turn around and start to walk. It's as if all we needed to say has been spoken. There is a lingering question hanging in the air inside my lungs, but I'm not brave enough to broach it aloud. I'm usually confident, but Edward has me at a disadvantage; not that it's intentional or his fault. He seems like a kind, honest and level-headed young man.

I hear his feet keeping pace next to mine as we make our way out of the library and down the walk leading to my waiting ride. The sun has already set.

My mind and heart are at one (for once), pleading with me to find the strength to ask him what I want. I grapple with myself as I try and wipe the sweat from my hands. It is a reaction I haven't really had before. I wish I'd worn my gloves.

We all but make it to the car before Edward stops and turns to me. My brain automatically takes in his halted stance and responds.

"Thanks for the adventurous afternoon, Rose. I had expected my afternoon to be quite tedious, but you proved otherwise. I like to be proven wrong at times, love," his silky voice trills out. I don't know if he does it on purpose or not, but the effect is the same on me. I quiver with something I can't recognize. It's something I've never really experienced before. And, I've never really been talked to like that. I welcomed the newness.

"Anytime, Edward," I respond candidly. He gives me an endearing smile that wipes the mischievous one from his lips. They are both quite the distraction.

I look over to my right and see Clarence watching us with rapt attention. I know it's time to leave. Our time has come to an end. I look back over and bat my eyelashes a few times; not trying to be coquette, but trying to make sure this ethereal, sublime man is real.

He doesn't disappear. _You're not disappearing_.

I smile to myself, knowing I haven't completely lost every sane thought in my head. I don't think I'd even be able to conjure up someone so wonderfully real.

I give him one more bashful smile, telling myself to stop being so stupid and shy.

_What's overcome you, Rose? Gird up your strength and walk away. It's something you can do_.

I heed my silent words and start to walk to my car. When I approach the door and wait for Clarence to open it, Edward precedes me and opens it himself. Clarence gets into the car and waits.

_I thought I already left you. My strength is failing me_.

"Thank, Edward." I'm truly scared I won't see him again and all of this would have been a sad figment of my imagination.

"With honor, Rose." He opens the door and hesitates before opening it all the way. I look to him, seeing him wrestle within himself. I know the look is real this time because he is actually struggling with some internal decision. He finally looks determined, yet oddly at peace. "I usually frequent here on Fridays, Rose. I know this isn't your campus, not that I even know you're a student," he starts to mumble, and I find it sweetly refreshing.

"I'm a student," I clarify for him, trying to save him from my earlier embarrassment.

"Well, long ramble – short, I study here on Friday afternoons. If you should so happen to ever be in need of a study partner, or simply want someone to bounce ideas off of, or are in need of a hanky to wipe the sweat after climbing the stairs, I'm usually found in the Medical section. Don't ever hesitate to find me."

A happy and cheerful grin creeps onto my lips. Again, without even having to ask, he gives me what I somehow need.

"I'll keep that in mind, Edward. And I may just someone to read over my paper for my English Lit class Friday next. It can never hurt to have a second opinion, right?" I ask, seeing if he picks up on the double-entendre.

"Never, Rose." He bows at the waist before finally opening up the car door. I seem to float inside. I give him the biggest smile I can conjure before the door is shut. I raise my hand and wave as the car pulls away from the curb. He repeats the gesture before turning around and walking back to Rush Rhees Library.

"Quite a young man," Clarence finally opines. I grin secretly before humming in agreement. I can't even look at my friend, afraid he will see the twin stains on my cheeks. He's never seen a Miss. Rose like that. I've never seen a Rose like that.

I now know what it feels to be on the other side. I now know what men feel like when they look at me, watch me, and salivate over me. It's quite the eye-opener. It makes me scared and uneasy. Now that I'm not in his presence and the euphoric fog starts clears, I can see how sad it is in some instances.

I'd like to believe this experience will change my ways, cause me to act differently, more respectful of men vying for my attention, but I know it won't. The Madam would never allow me to make such a spectacle of myself. And the truth of the thought saddens me. I would bend down to my mother's desires every time. Her way is the only one I know, and lived. It is the one that will get me closest to my goal of having that beautiful angel in my waiting arms.

_I don't know any other way to be_ . . .

_Or so you think_, my traitorous heart beats.

Perhaps I won't be deserving of this Edward, after all. I'm vain where he's uncaring. I'm haughty where he's charitable.

Would I have done the exact same thing he did for me if someone else was stuck in the elevator . . _. I don't know_. And the answer makes me seems as callous and shallow as I suspect.

My mother would be proud.

Perhaps there isn't such a distinction between 'Rose' and 'Rosalie' as I would have hoped.

Some things, it would seem, are unattainable to me, contrary to what my mother says and preaches to my impressionable ears.

* * *

><p><span>Author's Ramblings:<span> Thanks to all those who continue to read! I hope you liked the chapter, lovelies, and Edward's entrance. I'm quite nervous writing him . . . hmmm?

Happy Easter . . . to all those who observe the religious holiday. Also, Happy Passover! Have a glorious weekend, everyone. I also wanted to wish my Sister a Happy B-day. Love you very much, sis!

Please, if you have the time, leave me a little review. I'd love to know what you think of the story. Is it still interesting anyone? Anyhow, until next week, lots of love!

_Updated: Sunday, 8 April 2012 _


	5. Never Destroy

Disclaimer: S. Meyer owns everything recognizable in the land of Twilight. No copyright infringement is meant.

**Never Destroy**

"_Disappointment to a noble soul is what cold water is to burning metal; it strengthens, tempers, intensifies, but never destroys it__. _

_- Eliza Tabor _

_.~~._

Rosalie's POV – Friday Evening – End of May, 1932

After I get home and mother grills me civilly for over an hour, she finally gives in. She wants to know why I'm late, and why my clothes are inappropriately wrinkled and stained. She calms, and her masked-anger washes over me. It's not that I'm unaffected by her mood, it's just I know answering her will be pointless. She'll want to know everything about Edward. I won't put it past her to even higher a Private Investigator to have him researched.

I simply have nothing to say to her. I don't need her saying anything about him. And if she knows how much I've allowed my mask to fall in front of him, she'd be aghast. I think mother would like Edward, but one never knows, truly, with her. If he has no money, no connections, no ambitions and no promising future she will completely write him off and forbid me to see him.

So, perhaps that is the reason I stay silent. Although, I know inside my heart I want to keep him to myself, if even for a short while.

"This is your last chance, Rosalie," mothers voice is soft now, there is no more hostility. It scares me even more than the calmed antipathy. "You either tell me what happened to you, or I'll have to assume. You don't want me to do that, darling." She stokes my hair as she makes me stare in the mirror. "There must be a valid reason your clothes were wrinkled, somewhat torn and disheveled, hmm," she croons.

I don't have the courage to look at her. I stare at my pale features and avoid all eye contact.

"Why don't you tell me, Rosalie . . .?" her hand tightens in my fallen curls, but not enough to hurt, just warn.

Again, I say nothing; just shake my head. I'm not sure why I won't tell her about Edward, but I won't. Perhaps, it's another one of those rebellions, something that sets me free for a while and allows me to let the mask fall. Edward has seen me at my worst and the thought is almost liberating, if still not a little scary. There are many reasons filtering through my mind and refuses to set on one. It all confuses me, terribly.

"Very well, daughter. Remember, mother warned you." She leans over, kisses my forehead and pulls away. I shake in dread.

Lillian Hale isn't who is she because she sits idly by and lets things go. No . . . she has more tenacious determination than even my father.

The madam closes my bedroom door gently. I'm left to sit and think about the many possibilities she is capable of.

. .

(Saturday Afternoon)

I lay on my bed, coiled into myself. The last tear has fallen hours ago, but I can still feel the tightness on my face from where the tear tracks have dried. I wonder if they leave chalky lines on my porcelain skin. It almost feels as if lines of glue were poured under my eyes and left to dry.

If I close my eyes and allow the tears to dry over them, will it seal them shut?

I pull the blanket tightly around my shaking frame. Even though it is warm, the sheets and blanket give me an added protection. They cocoon me from the horror I faced. It may not seem like that to some, but it is to me. I feel violated.

I hear light clicks on the hardwood and start to shake as I recognize them.

My door creaks open; I burrow even further into my silk covers. The mattress sags under me as she sits on my bed. Her fingers start to thread through my golden hair.

"It needed to be done, Rosalie. I had to be sure, since you decided to stay mum about the situation." The way she says my name makes my stomach churn. Her tones and words suggest that her actions are my fault, and my fault alone. I wonder if I told her the truth about yesterday, would she have even believed?

_It's not my fault you subjected me to an invasive womanly exam_, my heart exclaims! Tears start to fall needlessly again. It accomplishes nothing and doesn't even relieve the pressure around my heart. I squeeze my legs together.

"Everything I ever do is for you." I want to call her out on the falsehood. I want to have the strength and fortitude to tell her to leave me be and not touch my hair. I don't want her hands anywhere near my person.

She may think what she does is for me, but it isn't entirely the truth. It may have started out wanting to make sure I had a sound future, but it seems to be more now. It's as if she relishes the control, the stronghold she has over my every action. It gives her a perverse power.

_I would never submit my daughter to this_, I cry within. _It doesn't matter if she wasn't pure, I would never make her lay on her back for a doctor and have him probe her, making sure no man had touched her. It is beyond degrading and mortifying._

_It is done and over with, Rose_," I console myself. _Take these lessons and never apply them to your little ones_. My heart beats a little less painfully as I think about _them_ and the joy they will bring to my life.

I lose myself in their sweet beauty and never hear the madam leave my room.

. . .

The week passes: both slowly and quickly; time seems like a paradox to me at times. It is a concept I think I'll never fully understand. My schedule keeps my head above water, helping me to remember Friday will be here soon, finally being able to claim my end reward. After my invasive examination, I thought mother would have been satisfied and become tolerable once again, but like many things about her, she surprises me.

"One would think after years of dedication and practice, Rosalie, my tutorials would be second nature. I can't understand the failure on your part, dear."

_No matter what happens, I always seem like a failure, mother. I only get your satisfied smiles when I have the perfect decorum, when I have the perfect look, when I have the perfect associations around me, when I have the perfect outlook on my life that aligns without argument to yours. Who can sustain such perfection_, I want to argue. But I remain silent. Arguing would only make the situation worse. I guess that makes me a bonafide coward.

I wonder when she became addicted to the control, the façade of the flawless family, social standing and stunning daughter. I try and understand what made mother like this and why she feels the need to press such illusions onto those she supposedly loves.

"I do try, mother," I say cordially. Sometimes I want to feel my backbone in regards to her, but know it won't happen. "I only want you proud of me. Surely, you know that," I say sweetly, obsequiously.

She regards me critically. It's as if she is looking for a lie, anything to punish me with. The sad thing is, I mean every word. I know she treats me terribly while turning around and fawning over my beauty. I've only ever wanted her complete pride in me. But that light is starting to fade.

"We shall see, Rosalie," she finally says, regally. "This week shall prove it to me, daughter."

I don't say anything in response; simply nod my head in acquiescence.

She leaves the room, and I start to mentally and emotionally prepare myself for what she has planned. As if the previous few days hadn't been horrific enough.

. .

As days pass, I do my best to make her happy, while keeping the relatively calm status-quo. It's as if I'm a child again and going through the same routine. Mother makes me sit at my vanity for hours at a time, combing my hair and learning to appreciate my beauty. She makes me watch myself as she relentlessly drills into my head the many lessons of my youth. Even though I'm seventeen and an adult to many people's consideration, she treats me differently.

"You must gird your virtue, Rosalie. What would your future husband think of a soiled wife?"

_I am virtuous, mother_, I think. _I'm untouched as you already know and had a doctor comfirm._

"You must, must keep up appearances, Rosalie. Your previous behavior this past Friday was disastrous. Masked decorum is more important than anything, sans your innocence."

_My innocence is long gone, mother. You saw to that when these lessons started_.

"You shouldn't want to spoil your immense beauty, daughter. It is the very desirable quality which makes you stand above the very rest. Practiced movements and **remembered** etiquette can only enhance your looks, not detract."

_I though you want me to retain my innocence not make it "__**desirable**__"_.

On and on she continues, never relenting. I wonder how she can speak so often and not have to take a drink of water.

_Am I nothing but your greatest project; an undertaking_, I want to ask. My mother loves me, I know she does, but sometimes it's as if she loves my beauty and what it can afford her more than anything. I always knew her to be advantageous, but never to these levels.

Along with my "lessons", my life continues as normally as possible. I talk to my father in the mornings and evenings. I keep the lessons in my head mother taught me and pull them off flawlessly. My loving father doesn't suspect anything. Many times I want to cry in his arms, ask him to make my hurt go away, but it will be for naught. I know it will only be worse if I involve him in any way.

I read the paper and take in the current events. I spend longer on the society pages, pleasing mother with my "desire" in wanting to know the societal aspect of our community.

I keep my appointments with my "friends" and allow them to divulge to me their latest potential conquests. I have a regal smile stretching my lips. Sometimes their conversations make my ears want to bleed. However, my mask _never_ falls and mother gives me more of her pleased smiles. I find no enjoyment in them any longer, but don't let on. My smile becomes submissive as I look to her.

I attend my summer classes and take copious notes. I rejoice in learning something new and not related to our social obligations, or the latest man to show interest in my beauty. I am flattered by the attention, I can't lie about that, but perhaps they see something in me that isn't simply skin deep. I tell myself that often.

Mother accompanies me to campus, making sure I'm keeping the proper respectability. She is my constant shadow during the week, following my every step. Sometimes I feel her even watching me at night. The feeling is a little eerie, but I don't ask her to stop. I pretend to have no knowledge.

Usually, I attend classes alone, but this week is back to the fundamentals. It's as if I am a little girl again, in need of constant parental supervision. I hold my head up high and "welcome" her company when she asks to take along.

"_It's been a while since I've been to the campus, Rosalie. Would you mind terribly if I came along_?" she enquires. Laughter rumbles in my stomach, but I don't let it come anywhere near my throat. I find it funny that she would politely ask to accompany me, knowing full well that she is already coming.

"That would be delightful, mother," I say, playing along to her music. It's not as if there was even a choice. I know after her speculations are met and her suspicions are satisfied, she will back off, and I will regain some of my independence. Refusing her will only prolong the inquisition into my life and routine.

After class ends and we start to go back home, she allows me to start in on my take-home assignment. I give her my gracious thank you(s). She smiles as if she allows me to cure world hunger.

I stare out the window the entire way home. Clarence catches my gaze briefly. I can see the sadness and compassion in his dark grey orbs. I give him a quick, half-smile. I make sure mother isn't looking. It would be complete madness if she saw me smiling at the hired-help. My friend may not know the intimate details of what my mother entails is my "education", but he can still see the effects it has on me.

His kindness reminds me so much of my father's. Without Clar knowing, his kind gesture gives me the last bit of strength I need to endure the remainder of the week. I could kiss his beefy cheeks in gratitude.

_There is more to me than can been seen in my outward appearance? _

I remind myself why I endure all of this. I take all these lessons mother gives and hold them in my mind. It is everything different I will do with my children.

_My future children_, I sigh. It is what I was made for.

. . .

(One week after meeting Edward)

Friday is finally upon me and I wake up with my heart fluttering. It seems like it is the first time I feel my heart alive this past week. It seems as if I had no self-awareness this week, with me trying to "relearn" (but more importantly, retain) my lessons and appease the madam.

I wake up, sprint out of bed and start my routine. I make sure to keep the smile that wants to bloom on my lips far at bay. I cannot raise her suspicion.

Meeting with Edward shouldn't be clandestine or secretive, but it has to be. I can only imagine the lengths the madam would go to if she found him ill-qualified to be my acquaintance.

He is something only for me to know about. This is one area in my life she can have no control over. It is part of the little rebellion in me that won't die down. I like to believe it is part of my soul, giving me the will to be myself; if even for a little time each week.

I sit at my vanity and stare though myself. I pick up my silver hand brush and start to count. I'm not sure if I'm counting the strokes or to the time when I will be free of her. I think of my brothers and I'm happy they aren't here. Even though I miss them endlessly, I would never want this for them.

Expectedly, mother comes in and makes sure I'm awake. She observes me with a very pleased smile on her face. I take the time to look back at her, wondering if she truly enjoyed this week, or was it as trying for her as it was for me.

She only has a content smile on her face. Her eyes are blank and they give nothing away. I am in awe of her mask; it is completely flawless.

"Did you sleep well, mother?" I ask politely. I hate the still, stifling silence she brings to my room.

"Yes, thank you, Rosalie," she replies, never breaking decorum. Even when she is angry at me, she is frightening polite.

After my hair is brushed and skin lotions applied, I look over my shoulder, waiting for her tutorial to begin.

She looks at me and says nothing. Her hair is styled wonderfully and a shade lighter than mine. Her diamond earrings sparkle in the weak sunlight. I usually love the mornings in Rochester during summer. The sunny mornings usually gives way to clouds and afternoon rain showers.

Mother's blue eyes take in my appearance. Did she look like me when younger? Was she ever not jaded in her beliefs? Did she ever love my father as he deserves to be loved? Were they happily over the moon for each other? Am I that much of a disappointment?

"I'll need your assistance this afternoon, Rosalie," mother informs me. I instantly know what she means. I shan't be having my free time. My heart sinks, but I make sure (more than ever before), not to let the mask fall. It's as if this is the ultimate test. I can feel the confirmation deep in my bones.

"Of course, mother. Anything you require," the devoted daughter charms. Her gaze becomes more intense, as if she is trying to peer into my soul. I hide nothing from her but my recent "interaction" with Edward. My mind never tires of hearing his name whispered softly; as if she can hear my thoughts.

She looks away for a while and smiles coyly, thinking she's somehow won. Mother may not know this little _test_ is a contest, but it is to that small, little rebellious part of my heart.

"Word has gotten to me that the Cullen's will be in attendance at tomorrow's dinner party," she starts to fill me in on the musing of her mind. The ever-greased wheels are turning in her head, and I sing internally at my car metaphor.

Unexpected excitement fills me. My interaction with Mrs. Cullen had been short, yet I feel happy at the thought of seeing her again. I keep all this to myself.

"As you know, it's rare when they usually grace anyone with their presence. However, this isn't what's important."

I could hear some bitterness tingeing her voice. Mother worked hard to maintain her position, and, yet, the Cullen's were well received and hardly ever made appearances.

"It's come to my attention Carlisle has a younger brother he has recently taken in. Although his brother is nineteen, their parents' passing has left him with being a mentor to him. Not much information is known, but the ladies are salivating at the bits."

So this is what she needs, me to be paraded in front of another possible suitor.

"We shall be going to the salon later today. I need you on your best form, Rosalie. This is what I require from you." Her eyes turn stern as she waits for my redundant approval.

"I shan't disappoint," I reply importantly. She nods her head before leaving the room. I soon follow and hollowly enjoy my fruit and poached eggs. "One must keep their figure graceful, even if curves are in trend, Rosalie," mother reprimands lightly. "It's easier to maintain than to lose."

I take it all in with a manual, wooden smile.

_Please, please, please don't be mad or offended_, I plead in my head, and even though Edward can't hear me, I somehow hope he receives the message.

We hadn't been truly explicit on our details of meeting up again, but I wanted to be there in case he was. Now, my reward for the week is taken without her even realizing it.

. . .

Rosalie's POV – Beginning of June, 1932

Saturday evening is spent with Mary once again finalizing my hair down to the madam's every detail. When she gives her overall approval and my ensemble is spot on, I take one more look at myself before leaving my room. Am I the only one that can see me drowning? Sometimes I want to surrender and not be rescued, but who would deliver my little ones? It is the vision that keeps me from being dragged under completely.

I slip into my heels before closing my squeaky door.

. .

The dinner party is the same, as always. The only difference being we wouldn't be attending this affair if not for the Cullen's. Mother wants to get a good look at Dr. Cullen's brother. I wonder if the host and hostess know of my mother's plan and if they would even care.

Their large smiles tell me they don't. I smile at them and watch as Katherine's husband all but drools over me. I shiver a little from his obvious infatuation, and make my way into the dining room, waiting for dinner to commence.

.

The only redeeming grace has been Esme. With great providence we are seated next to each other at this assembly. However, it turns out mother's endeavors for the evening are for naught.

"Edward was unable to make it," Mrs. Cullen informs me, slipping out her brother's name.

Without realizing it, she sparks something deep and resounding in me. I want to smile and laugh foolishly at the same time, but I don't. I tune back into what she is saying and control my ludicrous reaction. _Edward is a common name_, I tell myself, _I shouldn't react as gaily as I do when hearing it spoken_. "Something unexpected came up," she finishes as I pay attention again.

I wonder if she has given the reason as to why, but I won't ask. It would show my utterly rude departure from the conversation about her brother.

I give her a sympathy smile; one I hope shows my concern for her familial wellbeing. She has a sad, almost heartbroken look etching her youthful face. Perhaps the situation is even direr than I thought, and I miss out because I am lingering on another Edward at in inappropriate time.

"Is there anything I can do, be of any assistance?" I ask, hoping to wipe the sadness from her face. It looks quite misplaced on her sweet visage.

The sadness leaves her face, momentarily, as she gives me a smile that could drop the nearest man to his knees. I am more than happy to be a lady at the moment. "It's a lovely offer, dear, and very much appreciated. I'm sure my brother will be fine with time. Matters of a personal nature will clear up, and he'll be as good as new."

Her smile turns a little fake, but unlike one I would give to my competition. It's as if she is trying to convince herself things will get better, regardless if she believes otherwise.

I remember mother telling me of their parent's passing. _Perhaps their personal matters are related to that_, I tell myself. It isn't something I've ever dealt with. I have no personal knowledge on the situation and can, therefore, give no assistance or sage wisdom.

"I hope that to be the case, Mrs. Cullen. Please give my regards to your brother," I say kindly, affectionately. I mean every platitude.

"Thank you, Miss. Hale, I'll be sure to do that," she assures me, a gentle smile curving her mouth.

Conversation around us picks up as we leave the depressing topic behind and chat about lighter topics. She asks me about my clothes and about the classes I'm taking. I talk to her about the volunteer organization she is involved in and the hobbies she's interested in. We talk to others around us, making sure to keep up with social norms.

Father is talking to our host and Dr. Cullen. I can't hear the topic but it looks serious. Mother seems to be holding court at someone else's table, but the hostess doesn't seem to mind. She looks beyond delighted to not only have the Hales sitting at her table, but the Cullen's as well. I stare at her for a few more seconds before turning my attention elsewhere.

I hold back a smile as I observe Mrs. Cullen grimacing over her meal. I can only see her face because of the side view I'm afforded. She hides her reactions to the food from the others behind her cloth napkin.

"The veal chop is somewhat undercooked," I tease her. Veal isn't my favorite meal either, so I can sympathize with her. "And the roasted potatoes aren't supposed to be as crunchy, I think." Mrs. Cullen thickly swallows her chewed food before laughing lightly.

I lean back over to my side and pretend to be enjoying my meal.

"The secret to pretending unsavory food is good is to hold one's breath," I educate, passing on valuable tricks I've learned. "Clear my mind and hold my breath; it's the only thing that gets me through some of these _trials_," I speak softly. I give the doctor's wife a small conspiratorial grin.

"I shall keep that in mind, dear." Dinner continues and we both finish our courses, pretending to the entire world it's the best food we've eaten.

It's something I've never experienced, the comradery I feel with Mrs. Cullen. We share secret smiles and useless tidbits of information, yet I feel close to her. It's something I can't explain but still enjoy. I'm sure to keep my mask in place, but inside, I delight at the budding amity (or whatever it may be).

When dinner is over and the ladies retire to a sitting room, the light chatting continues. I am sitting by mother and make sure to put in my correct opinions. I sip my after dinner beverage elegantly.

"_Oh, so tragic to have lost her position in society_," I coo, making sure to keep the haughtiness in my voice. It's what ladies in my situation do. Everyone around me giggles at the boorish comment.

"_That dress what absolutely horrid on her, I must agree, Katherine_," I facedly agree. She doesn't see beyond my well-kept armor. Mother is simply glowing beside me, as if she is proud of the production I'm putting on.

I peek at Mrs. Cullen, and even though she is also wrapped up in her own conversation, it looks as if a small frown is gracing her face. I wonder if anyone else can tell, and also if the frown is because of me.

I want to reassure her there's more to me, but I can't. It undermines the entire grueling week and years of "lessons".

_No one here can compete with my beauty_, I tell myself, letting the familiar pretense hold me together.

I sigh when father comes to collect us. It was wonderful to have seen Mrs. Cullen, but she takes me to extremes. I say my goodbyes, making sure to keep myself in check when saying goodbye to my friend. She lightly kisses my cheeks and tells me how much she enjoyed my company during dinner. Her words (though routine to others) strike me as completely heartfelt.

It dawns on me, perhaps she wears a mask as tightly as I do. I pull back from our appropriate embrace and stare at her. For a few seconds, her eyes are unguarded, and I see myself reflecting in them. It shakes me to the core.

My smile turns wobbly before I control my facial features once more, and Mrs. Cullen pulls the veil back over her eyes. We are more alike than I would have suspected. _Or so you like to believe_, I hear taunted in my head.

. .

Once in my room and out of my party clothes, I reflect on the evening. Esme, I think of her that way in the privacy of my sanctuary, is like me. We both wear different hats and may not be all that we appear publicly.

However, unlike Esme, I don't have her innate sweetness. I can see it beneath her social veneer. It runs in her veins and touches each part of her life. Granted, I am not wholly acquainted with her, but I would bet all that my father has on such a notion. That doesn't mean she is without a backbone when required.

I sit ay my vanity and stare hollowly at my reflection. _Oh_, _oh_ . . . no one can deny my apparent beauty, for it is truly stunning. From my violet eyes to my delicate jaw line, my face is perfection, but inside is a different story. My shortcomings and self-flagellation I keep to myself. It would only crack my shell I've cultivated, but it's still there and I fear the day it all comes spilling out.

Several large breathes leave my unpainted lips as I stand and make my way to bed. Another day passes; another day of fake façades, bringing me ever closer to my true dream. However, I'm still really sad about not seeing Edward.

I put the sadness behind me and think of next week. I can only hope he hasn't washed his elegant hands of me.

* * *

><p><span>Author's Notes:<span> So, a very BIG thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter and the one's already posted! Goodness, you give me such inspiration and I love you for making the effort to make my day! Even though I couldn't respond to the anonymous ones, they are also very appreciated (*typing with big smile on lips*).

Anyhow, I hope everyone had a nice weekend. _Please_, if you have the chance . . . review. It takes only seconds, but makes me entirely happy and motivated! Much love sent to everyone!

_Updated: Monday, 16 April 2012_


	6. When at Last

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns everything recognizable in the land of Twilight. No copyright infringement is meant.

**When at Last**

"_A thing long expected takes the form of the __unexpected__ when at last it comes__"_

_- Mark Twain _

_.~~._

Rosalie's POV – Middle of June, 1932

I stare at my bracelet watch, knowing that it is mocking me. _Tick-tock_ it talks to me. I close my eyes and ill-manneredly rest my elbows on the table. My shoulders slump over as my back curves slightly; however, I make sure not to slouch fully; the stern voice of mother is ever present in the recesses of my mind. My eyelids squeeze tightly over my orbs, trying to fend off the stinging.

_Think of something else_, I console myself. My eyes open and become focused on the bracelet watch. Like everything else I'm given, it's quite lovely and delicate. Even though it is resting on the table in front of me instead of my wrist, I think it still looks fetching. Moroccan leather lines the band and always feels incredibly supple against my pale skin. Delicate white gold forms the outside and inside mechanisms of the piece.

On the back is the inscription: _Priceless Rose_. It never fails to warm my heart, reading the dedication. It was a gift from my Aunt Jacqueline. She's my only living relative outside my immediate family. She and my father are close, but do to other obligations aren't often to talk often.

Aunt Jacqueline isn't married, but still very well-off. She inherited a fair amount of money from my paternal grandparents. Through wise and providential investments her wealth was largely untouched by the Stock Market Crash of '29. Auntie loves to tell me about the importance of wise choices and not letting fear hold one back. My aunt is larger than life and can be just as boisterous.

But through all of her fearlessness, she is still a refined lady. Unlike mother, Auntie and father were reared to be the best citizens' possible, but with love and firm guidance. I feel such positive guidance and reinforcement from my father, but not mother. I often wish she is more like him, in teaching me, but it is no use. Mother is a product of her environment. Her mother raised her as she continues to raise me.

No matter what others may think of her, mother's former education has brought her quite the life, and thus she feels no need to change tactics with me. There are many times I want to beg her, ask her with my entire heart to simply love me, but I don't. She doesn't respond to erratic emotions, but cool and resolute logic.

My eyes catch the inscription once again. The harsh light of the library reflects off the white gold and beautiful script. _Priceless Rose _is the message my Aunt and father try to teach me. "_Time is precious, darling; something not to be trifled with, but respected. It is quite priceless and nothing can compare to it. We are each given a set amount, and, therefore, it's all the more treasured; like you, my Rosie_."

Unshed tears gather in my eyes, but I don't allow them to fall. I have some pride and decorum left in me, no matter how much I may feel crushed at the moment.

_Turn your mind, Rose_ . . . and so I do.

Personal time with father and Auntie are at a premium and coveted by me. I live through my memories of them both. They are my strongest internal believers, deeming my true beauty lies within me, not on my skin. My memories of them are strong and clear. I never want to forget something about them; so I make sure to replay them often in my thoughts. My loyalty to them is more than blood-deep; it radiates to my very soul. They are as timeless to me, as me to them.

I breathe in deeply and try to dispel the stinging water from my eyes. My head falls back and my curled, pinned-back hair tickles my neck. Gooseflesh arises on my upper arms. My head comes back to center as I look around. It's as if more than my hair makes the gooseflesh arise on my flesh. I take in every nook and cranny around me, finding nothing of importance. I scoff at myself, thinking there is more to my situation then there truly is.

My fingers caress the book I'm holding, but I don't take in any of the words. My time piece is moved to the right of me and continues to speak to me in tick-tocks. Several more deep breaths leave my lungs; I know it time to leave.

I try not to let the crushing distress and letdown drown me.

_It's completely silly, Rose_," I ridicule. _You shared an interlude of no more than two hours . . . why should it garner such importance_?

I laugh mockingly to myself. My heart knows the truth if my brain refuses to see reality. But even that is relative (reality), speculative to each individual person: for no two people see something uniquely the same.

I roll my shoulders and try to release some of the devastating tightness. I began to wonder, like I did this entire Friday afternoon, what makes someone or such a situation so important. My mind boggles and tries to grasp the obscurity of the topic. Back and forth my mind tosses, ebbing and flowing to the confusion of my perplexity.

I concede that the situation was conducive to it. By the time Edward found me, I had been hysterical. My constant shield was down and my reclusive vulnerability (something I save for my room and the light of the moon) was there for him to see. I can count on one hand the number of people who have seen me that emotionally exposed.

But for that moment, he saw me, actually saw _Rose_. She is someone that lives deeply in me, only making rare appearances.

I may refer to myself as "Rose", but that beautiful girl, I always long to be, can't come out often. I have been trained, tirelessly, to shun her as much as possible; she is an unknown and not refined. Her actions and thoughts would be free for all to read. And as much as I love and cherish her, she scares me. Such unknown exponents can take me away from my life's goal. It's all I ever wanted, being a mother. I want to love my child with everything and see that love reflected back.

However, the thing which scares me relentlessly about the situation is how much compassion I saw written on his gloriously handsome face. From what mother taught me, it would stand to reason he'd be turned off and somewhat repulsed by such an unrefined creature that I exhibited. Mother teaches me to be demure and meek, but not completely helpless. To have a woman so weak and feeble is a repulsion and deterrent to men.

It was no such thing to Edward. Of course I question some of the things mother teaches me (it's only prudent to), but in regards to men, she is usually correct. I act as she teaches and they respond as she alleges.

Edward didn't show _said repulsion_. He truly saw me at my absolute worst and only extended compassion and comfort. How could such expressions of emotions not rightly scare me, especially from everything I know and learned?

I know this made the situation different and more prominent in my mind. I understand that my heart, craving acceptance and love left over from mother's and those around me that just see my thin appearance, reached out and clung to what he offered. But what caused Edward to go against everything I've come to learn through my own experience? What made him want to comfort me and not push me away from his expensive clothes, from my horrid display of tears and madness? What made him wholly different than anything else I've encountered?

_What makes Edward altogether different_?

No answer becomes apparent. I want to throw something out of frustration, and the irritation only adds to my falling hope.

This is the second Friday I sit and wait for him to join me. I know it was an open-standing invitation he offered to me, but I want him to be here.

He creates so much confusion in me. I saw his compassion and the brief flash of hurt when I looked away from him. I could have been making it up in my madness, but it seemed real. I had blinked several times to make sure he was really there.

Regardless of how he makes me feel, how vulnerable I become around him and how incredibly liberating it is, he isn't here. Two weeks have passed since the Friday I was unable to make it, bringing the total to three weeks since he saved me. I've sat in the medical section, waiting hours at a time for his glorious self to make an appearance, but he has yet to show.

It is where my depression and devastation is coming from. Perhaps I've done something to make him mad, or upon reflection, he truly disliked what he saw reflected in me? I felt wholly different with him, not myself and yet unknown to even myself. Perhaps every girl acts that way around him and it turns him off greatly?

I simply don't know what to think and the confusion continues to swirl. The ticking of the watch sounds loudly in my ear and becomes accompanied with the bells in the tower. The hour chimes five and even though I have an hour of personal time left, it's time to leave. I should have known I'd disappoint someone so nice and truly good as him.

I shiver from disappoint in myself before trying to stand. My legs are somewhat wobbly, but not as much as my aching heart.

_This is ridiculous, Rose_, I try and comfort myself. _You've hardly known him. Why are you reacting in such a way? Done and over with; pull the veil back over your face_ . . .

It actually hurts to do that. My mask comes so natural to me; I hardly ever have to beckon it at will-call. But now, it fights with me.

I slump back into my seat and shudder from my heartbreak. The tears are begging me to release them, my eyes sting so much, but I hold them in. There is simply no use in letting them fall.

With great patience and coaching, I put my emotions into some semblance of order before straightening my shoulders and pushing my chair back. The legs sound loud as it slides against the floor.

"Were you leaving then, Rose . . ." I hear whispered behind me; the words linger in the thick air surrounding me.

_Ed-Edward_

I fall unthinkingly back into my chair and inhale sharply. My lungs ache from the quick, unexpected breath. His voice is even more magnificent than I recall. How is that even possible?

My head, without permission, turns around and takes in his splendid countenance. _Goodness, he's glorious . . . can it be all glowing from within? He has to have even more goodness than I even contemplated. No one can be that appealing without radiating it from the inside out_.

And like the spring waters waiting to break through the solid ice of winter – I can feel the words falling from my lips. It's as if his glorious face invites me to throw away every caution I know and embrace someone I hardly know.

"I'm incredibly sorry, Edward! I truly meant to come the next Friday, but was unexpectedly detained. Please, don't think I intentionally snubbed you. It's not possible for me to do so. If I offended you in anyway, know that it was inadvertent . . . never meant," I finish on a desperate whisper, willing him with everything to understand my true repentance.

I hear the chair next to me pulling out. I keep my head down, so ashamed of my erratic behavior, my lack of manners and the quiet joy of him seeing another side of me usually secreted away.

"Hey, love," he coaxes gently, waiting for me to look at him. It may seem like taking liberties, but he places his chilled hand on my overheated skin. His fingers curl around my small wrist; the difference in our skin temperatures feels good and keeps me grounded.

I still lack the courage to look at him, but that doesn't stop my heart from beating wildly at him calling me "love"; it's as if my heart is begging me to go to him (_so shameless_). I even feel myself tremble from the four-letter word: so seemingly simple.

"Rosalie, please look to me . . ."

His soft plea hangs in the air between us. I want to fight the pull; I want to put my useless mask up and hide behind it, so I can't feel this staggering ache. Regardless of what I want (or think I want), I feel my head start to rise. His eyes stare at me quite intently and are dark. I can only imagine the emotions running through him. It's incredible the way his eyes are able to change colors continually. It reminds me of my littlest brother's hazel eyes, and how they are able to change with his feelings.

The right side of Edward's lips quirk up, and I wonder what he's thinking. He looks intense, yet gently happy. My fingers want to run along the perfect contours of his face, but I refrain. It would be beyond inappropriate.

His uniquely-colored hair is falling gently into his eyes, and I wonder as to why he doesn't wear a hat. It's almost required of any gentleman to wear a hat. However, Edward seems to be a man unto his own, and he fits that role so well. There's no need for him to march to another's drum beat when everyone would beg to march to his.

"I'm sorry, too. It should have never come down to you blaming yourself," he admits. His face is the picture of honesty. I want to claim there isn't a reason for him to apologize – I was the one to stand him up – but he doesn't let me.

"No, Rosalie. It's my burden to take. I should have never allowed a lady to sit in sadness. It is mean and unbecoming of me. My mother raised me better and would be ashamed of my actions towards you." I can see some pain as he speaks of his mother, but it's quickly pushed to the side. His refined manner comes back over, but it's softened.

"Accepted," is all I say, not wanting him to wallow any longer in something I feel is of my own making.

A little engaging smile plays over his mouth, and I can't place the reason for it. I simply feel myself becoming inexplicably content.

The silence reins as we take in each other. We don't speak, but words are unneeded in the moment.

.

When things are seemingly settled and the thick air around us becomes somewhat stable, we settle into conversation. Everything about him and me, together, seem natural to me. I know I must be insane, thinking such ludicrous thoughts, but they aren't meant to be stopped.

"Where did your interest in cars come about?" he asks, scanning the books near my hands.

His face looks pleasantly surprised. I feel my cheeks pinking; the act is so foreign to me, yet comes without abandon with him. What does he have, which compels me to blush like a child?

I turn from him and truly, _truly_ giggle stupidly. It's really not funny, but I find it such.

"My mother," I admit honestly. Mother would keel over if she heard where my interest came from. "As a child I wanted to tinker with cars, but she deemed it unnecessary and beneath me to show any interest in cars; therefore, my fascination was piqued.

A laugh comes from Edward's throat, and though it strangely sounds rusty, it feels wonderful. To know that I made him laugh gives me a sense of peculiar accomplishment.

"Of course, it's only natural. We all feel some need to rebel in some aspect against our parents." His voice drops off. He still has a smile on his lips but it becomes tightened. Again, I start to worry I've said something wrong, especially since he was so free moments ago.

"I read Auto books as my form of rebellion," I inform him, wanting to get his mind of his perceived problems. He's meant to always smile; those gorgeous lips should always be pulled into some form of a smile.

He starts to chuckle again, thus granting me my wish. "I also call my mother "mom" at times. She doesn't like to be called such, but what kind of daughter would I be if I only pleased her?" I inquire coyly.

Oh, I all but exist to please my mother, but I like that I can find the humor to joke about it with Edward. He continues to bring out this whimsical side to me.

"For shame, Rosalie," he mock-chastises. "How are the skies not falling?" He brings his long, tapered fingers to his chin in jest.

"By the grace of God," I tease. I lean in closer to his chair next to me and pretend to look around us. I've never been this silly with someone of the opposite sex (outside my family), and I embrace it. "I've even been known to slouch while reading . . ."

We both laugh gaily and I have to hold my stomach. The muscles tighten and feel quite odd. I only laugh this way with my brothers and occasionally father.

"You're a regular Bonnie Parker, sans the Clyde. However, who needs him when you're known to slouch." He sounds scandalous and his radiant face shows his mirth.

"As long as someone recognizes my outlaw potential," I say righteously, my nose rising in the air as my arms fold over my chest.

"Thanks, Rose," I hear his soft voice say. The laughter leaves him and I wonder why. My arms drop as I take in his serious visage.

"What for?"

He stares at me for a while. I see several emotions playing over his face, some of which I don't want to believe. I fear that I would become even more heart-sore if it turns out to be untrue.

"Don't underestimate yourself," he truly pleads, sending my confusion sky-rocketing; but it's nothing new with him. "You bring such levity to me, Rose. It's quite a joke in my family about my being a stick in the proverbial mud. I may be nineteen, but I like routine and can be quite unchanging."

I frown.

Never would it cross my mind that Edward is so rigid and unfeeling. How can one so unchanging bring about so many rampant emotions in me?

"With you . . . with you, I find myself coming out of that routine and embracing something new and unfamiliar." I could more than empathize with him, for I feel the same way. "Thanks for that."

"Um," I stutter inelegantly, uncertainly. "Not at all." He chuckles gently before shaking his head.

"There you are, proving my point wonderfully."

"You're one to talk," I rebut. "I've never stammered so horridly in my life. I'm as much at an unknown as you, Edward. I like what you do to me." I wonder if he can hear my whispered, true confession. My face is aflame.

"You can add the stammering to your list of rebellions," he joshes.

I smile indulgently at him, not being able to help my reactions. He is endearingly sweet and beyond beautiful. "Thanks, Edward . . . too. I'm glad you were able to make it today."

We stare at each other and let the silence settle in. None of my answers have been answered this afternoon, and I'm still baffled in regards to him. _What is it about you that makes me too entirely comfortable with you (sans the blushing and stuttering)? What is so indelibly different about you and this instant friendship and rapport we've established? What, what, what is it about you, Edward?_

His eyes are back to their jewel color, and once again I'm reminded of Esme . . . _so peculiar_.

"Are you related to an Esme Cullen?" I ask, rushing the words out. I want to slap myself for being so imprudent and brash. My mind also realizes I don't know Edward's last name.

"Yes," is his simple answer.

I am truly stunned. I remember that it crossed my mind when he saved me from the broken elevator. I am even more stunned at the connection. The world seems small and closely-knit. I think of the chances of Esme mentioning her brother during the dinner party and the fact that Edward was supposed to have been there. My heart feels the loss.

"Oh," is all I can think to say.

"She is my brother's wife. How are you familiar with her?"

"Many people are quote on quote familiar with your family, Edward," I say quite honestly. It becomes a habitual tendency. "Your family is shrouded in mystery, thus making your company more appealing and sought after. I wouldn't be surprised if people were to hire Private Investigators to probe further into your family."

I want to stop the words spilling from my lips, knowing that my mother is a likely contender, but I feel as if someone must warn him.

His chilled hand brushes over mine. The contact is too brief and leaves me breathing heavily. Such an innocuous touch, yet heart-warming.

He doesn't answer.

"I became formally acquainted with her at the Governor's Ball. We talked briefly, but the impression she made on me was anything but." I think back to that night and how she had me off guard from the very start. The Cullen's seem to have me at a disadvantage.

"She really wonderful," I tell him, meaning it wholly. Edward's head tilts to the side as he gives me a soft smile. I wonder if he is also thinking of his sweet sister-in-law. "She talked about you for a bit . . . at the Watson's dinner party," I admit, wanting to see his reaction. He gives me nothing.

I'm quite impressed by his facial control. It's as if he never has to move; he could stay immobile for a while.

My mind refers back to that night, and I want to be both happy and sad. I was denied a chance to see Edward, to alleviate some of the pain I had felt over the past three weeks. The many thoughts that had gone through my head weren't nice or serene. They were actually quite terrifying. I didn't want him thinking terribly of me.

On the flip side I was actually relived he hadn't been at the Watson's dinner party. The madam hadn't the opportunity to get her claws into him, rendering him either a perfect suitor for me, or completely improper for me to even converse with. There weren't shades of grey with Lillian Hale, the purveyor of all things Rosalie.

I didn't understand my need to keep Edward from her. Perhaps I thought he would see her and think me the exact replica of her. Perhaps he would become like all the other gentlemen and start to see me only as a commodity my mother regulated. Perhaps, the person I had come to know as "Edward" wouldn't be my secret, the person whom I had come to actually feel "natural" around. I didn't want to surrender the person I was around him.

It once again showed the levels of my selfishness.

"And what, pray tell, did the esteemed Esme have to say?" he hums. I giggle at his silliness. It makes me feel better and take my mind of my previous wanderings.

"Only that you were unable to make it. She also intimated it was of a personal nature," I confess. The little, secret grin falls from his beautiful lips to become straight-lined. "I heard about your parent's passing, Edward, and I'm truly sorry." I felt completely dumb in saying it.

"I wish I had better, more eloquent words of sincerity, but I haven't. It's something I'm not really acquainted with, and I'm sorry if I'm coming off as insincere."

I lower my head as heat infuses my cheeks. I'm mortified. These are reactions I have no experience in. My demeanor is usually cool and collected, while being demure. I feel out of place and stuck in my skin.

"Rosalie, please," Edward's soothing voice comforts me. I am taken aback and look up. I see nothing but that compassion in his eyes I am becoming familiar with. "Don't trouble yourself with unnecessary feeling," is his gentle plea.

"You haven't come off as disingenuous, but refreshingly real. Stop doubting your amazing gifts, love."

My heart absolutely soars at his words. I can't stop the drooping smile blooming over my lips and the tears clogging my eyes. I am in awe of Edward and this seemingly odd and tenuous connection we share.

Like the gentleman he was probably raised to be, he reaches into his suit pocket and pulls out a handkerchief. Instead of offering it to me, he takes it upon himself to gently dab at my cheeks, removing some of the fallen tears. I'm speechless.

"There, imperfectly perfect . . ." I give him a tremulous smile.

"My parents have both passed. I'm originally from Illinois. My father was a lawyer and had many hopes and ambitions for me. I was closer to my mother, favoring the love and adoration she gave to me in abundance."

"Did your father have the same standards for Dr. Cullen?" I ask nosily. I knew my mother had different ambitions for me versus my brothers. My father only wanted us to have the best advantageous in life he could offer; not to mention happy. Was it the same in Edward's upbringing?

He gets a strange look on his face before rearranging it. "My father was indifferent. Carlisle wanted to be a doctor for some time, and that's what he accomplished. Father hardly had any time to devote to family. He was quite busy with his profession and social obligations. We learned to adapt," he finishes quietly.

I want to feel bad for causing such emotions in him, but he looks up and gives me that stare which says _I better not even think it_.

"But mother more than made up for his lack of affection. Anyhow, they both came down with Influenza. It was quite severe. Mother made Carlisle promise to take me away and protect me." I gasp in awe.

I didn't know Edward's mother from Eve, but she seemed quite wonderful; the type of mother I aspire to me. I couldn't imagine the pain she must have felt in sending away her children, to protect them from such a crippling and contagious sickness.

"Eventually the influenza took both of them and Carlisle kept his promise. He took me away and kept me safe to the best of his abilities. At times, I think of him more as a father than my own."

I have nothing to contribute. I feel inadequate. I do the only thing I can. Slowly, cautiously and shyly I reach out and lay my hand over his. Our eyes timidly meet. I can see the thankfulness in his. He doesn't turn his hand over and clasp mine, but allows mine to simply sit atop his.

"That's quite the history," I admit softly.

"My own tale of suffering . . . we all have them, Rose, regardless of our status and backgrounds."

I couldn't have agreed more with him. Even though my life hadn't been affected with mortality issues (that I could truly remember) doesn't mean I'm not plagued with my own struggles, and my friend seemed to understand that.

"I hope you aren't expecting me try and top you," I say facetiously.

"Well, I'd say it's only fair . . ."

And on and on our banter continues. We don't touch on anymore gripping and sad topics, but keep it light and teasing. Being with him is like submerging oneself into cool water on a hot day: refreshing and invigorating. He's like nothing I've ever experienced.

An hour and a half passes, and unlike earlier, my watch is mocking me about the quickly passing time. When one is miserable time passes at a snail's pace, yet when one is happy and enjoying the moment it quickens and passes in the blinking of an eye. It almost doesn't seem fair.

We both stand up. Edward moves my chair back and assists me. He truly is a gentleman. I make sure my hat is perfectly situated and my dress is acceptable. I place my _mocking_ bracelet watch on my wrist and proceed to ignore it.

My companion grabs my bag and places it on his own shoulder. I start to blush foolishly at the gesture. My eyes look over at him. He has a roguish smile playing on his lips. I look up to his eyes and he covertly winks.

_Goodness, he's lethal. What will I ever do with him_ . . .

His laughter can be heard as we make our way down the stairs, thankfully bypassing the elevator.

My heart no longer feels like a painful, useless lump.

I smile.

* * *

><p><span>Author's Notes:<span> Hope you enjoyed the chapter and the Edward/Rose interaction. I know many of you missed it last chapter!

Truly, thanks to those who reviewed last chapter. I could never thank you fully, but it means so much to me! Anyhow, if you have the time, please review! I love them so very much! Much love sent everyone's way!

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(1) Bracelet Watches or as sometimes called "wristlets" were predominately worn by women. Pocket watches were mostly worn by men. They were usually given for special occasions and were also handed down heirlooms. A wrist watch was seen as feminine and rarely worn by men, even though watch companies tried to advertise them as "manly". It really wasn't until after the World Wars that wrist watches started appealing to men. Once they were reinvented with electronic mechanisms, men started to buy them more.

(2) Bonnie Parker was a famous outlaw and robber during the Great Depression era with her partner Clyde Barrow. They were famous during 1931 until 1934 when they were ambushed and killed in Louisiana. They mostly robbed banks and small gas stations. Both Bonnie and Clyde have become Pop Culture Icons.

_Updated: Sunday, 29 April 2012_


	7. Begin by Knowing

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns everything recognizable in the land of Twilight. No copyright infringement is meant.

**Begin by Knowing**

"_To __fly__ as fast as thought, you must begin by knowing that you have already arrived.__"_

_- Richard Bach _

.

Rosalie's POV – June, 1932

I sit across from my father, wondering if he realizes how handsome and commanding he looks behind his antique desk. My father is timeless. He is _my ally and friend_ against mother's campaign to make me Rochester's reining princess.

My back is straight, but I fiddle with my fingers, nervous about what father wants.

Dinner had been a quiet affair. We didn't have any social obligations or any of our acquaintances over for after drinks. Father had quizzed me on current events, making sure I knew what was happening, not only in our community, but the Country in general. He wasn't coolly harsh like mother, but concerned. I could see the love shining in his eyes as he asked me questions about the news and school.

Father understood the trying times we lived in, more than mother and I – we were far removed from that. However, he made sure I was socially and economically familiar with the constantly changing landscape of our nation. He wanted me aware and vigilant.

"_I need you protected, darling. You must be diligent, Rosie. It's for your safety. I cannot imagine anything happening to you_." Tears clogged my eyes at his beautiful sentiment. I knew he loved me unconditionally.

It was at my father's insistence that Clarence was hired. My father wasn't vain like mother and I, but he also wasn't ignorant. He witnessed the way men stared at me. He probably realized their intentions a lot more than I did. Father wanted me protected and looked after. He knew my immense beauty was like a lighthouse beacon, calling many to my attention. It scared me at first, father all but demanding someone protect me. I didn't know all his intentions or causes. But the more I came to learn and like Clarence, it was quite a blessing in disguise.

"_I have my reasons. You shall abide by them, daughter! I give you many liberties, but I also expect you to heed this stipulation. It's for your protection and your own good. I love you, Rosie_." Those words stuck with me and I heeded the warning. However, Clarence also gave me some space, but that didn't mean he shirked his responsibilities.

"There's no need to be nervous, Rosie," my father says, pulling me from my thoughts. His smile is lingering and calm. I give one in return. "You haven't displeased me in anyway. Is there something to feel guilty over?" he ask, a sly smirk on his face.

I give him a wiry smile before shaking my head.

"Are you quite certain?" he croons. I love my father and his teasing; it takes me back to being his _little princess_ and unconcerned with finding a husband.

"Why don't you tell me, daddy?" I counter.

"Fine . . ." There isn't a need for him to sound long-suffering. I laugh at his antics. "I received an interesting missive today." He goes silent and stares at me. I raise my eyebrows.

"It was written to you but sent in care of me." I am beyond interested. I wonder who has written to me and what their desire is. My father receives all the mail and usually hands it out to the perspective owners after dinner. I can't fathom who had written to me.

"Okay, daddy, just tell me already," I laugh between words. He has me right where he wants me, _strategically well played_.

"Well, Mrs. Esme Cullen has written and asked you over to her house for tea. Even though she addressed the letter to you, she had a personal segment for me, praising my daughter on her manners, attitude and regard for others. She is quite taken with you, darling . . . not that I blame her," he says, biased. My eyes water slightly.

"Thanks, sir," I mumble, embarrassed over my errant emotions. "May I go?" My fingers start to entwine again, waiting for his answer is nerve-racking.

"Would you like to go?" he counters. I think of someone else entirely different than Esme as he asks the question, before relegating it to the back of my mind.

"Yes, I would. Mrs. Cullen is truly lovely, daddy. She is so genuine, yet knows how to also put on proper Aires at parties." My father takes this as a compliment instead of a slight. He knows how boring and time-consuming those parties can be. "She sees past what others don't." And that knowledge has my father smiling.

"I'm glad, baby girl, and you have my permission to go. As for your mother," he says, and I dread this part, "I'll handle her."

And I trust his word. Father always has the last word in regards to our family. He is quite fair in consulting with each of us and wanting to know our opinions if the situation pertains to us, but he has the last say. Something I'm eternally grateful for.

. .

"I've the final say, Lillian," I hear my father say later that night. "And regardless what you think of Mrs. Cullen and her peculiarity, I find no fault with her, her husband or brother-in-law."

I eavesdrop on my parents' private conversation once again. I feel some remorse, especially after everything my father is doing for me, but the need to know what mother thinks is overwhelming.

"You've met Edward Cullen, then?"

"Yes, Lillian." Father sounds aggravated. I know firsthand how trying she can be and pushing one to the edge.

"He came into the bank to settle some business with his brother's account. I found him very respectful and polite. He was a little stiff, but still amiable. Why does it matter about the young Cullen? It's Mrs. Cullen she shall be having tea with . . ."

"Don't you want your daughter married to the best available gentleman in town?" his wife counters. "Don't you want her to make a connection that will not only have her set, but benefits us socially, economically and politically? It's imperative she makes a match that will reflect greatly on our family, Rich!" Mother is starting to sound exasperated.

"I won't lie and say those things wouldn't be a bonus, dear, but I also want more for my baby girl. I want her to have every advantage."

I can see mother's face in my mind's eye. This is a discussion they've had before. They both see my future so differently. Mother wants me married to the person with the best bloodlines and familial connections. Sometimes, I think she doesn't care if he were to treat me like a pariah or worse; as long as she gained what she wanted.

Father would see me happily married and to someone who is somewhat deserving of me._"No one is ever good enough for you, baby girl," he whispers to my young ears. He sounds sad for some reason. "I guess we shall have to wait and see. It's a day I dread forever, Rosie._" His words from long ago still bring tears to my eyes and I can recall them with perfect clarity. Father is impressed by my accurate memory recall.

"Yes, Rich, I'm well aware that Rosalie is the shining apple of your eye. However, there will come a time you'll have to let go. It comes with the territory of being a father." Her words sound sweet, comforting. I want to believe they are, and not patronizing.

"That's still quite far in the future, Lillian," my father naively states.

It's what he wants to believe, even though he knows his wife's agenda. Mother wants me married by the age of nineteen – less than two years away. The thought is both scary and exhilarating.

"Regardless, Rosie shall be having tea with Mrs. Cullen, and I _won't_ hear of you giving her a difficult time. Don't say anything to her or even try to make things harder for her, Lillian. I shall _know_!"

I sigh in relief. Mother will concede to him. It's not often Richard Hale lays down a command for his wife; therefore, she takes him all the more seriously. I love and appreciate my father. He's the only one who can truly handle Lillian Hale . . . well, him and Aunt Jacqueline. Perhaps there's something in their blood I didn't inherit?

They go on talking, but I back away. My curiosity has been sated. I go back to my room and start to get ready for bed. The excitement is coursing through me, and I can scarcely keep it inside me. However, I must keep my whits about me; mother is going to be even more sufferable than usual.

After my nightly routine, I go to bed, excited at the prospect of seeing Mrs. Cullen again, _and if Edward so happens to be there_ . . . well, that thought is left for another time. I already know my dreams will be filled with him.

. . .

"You amaze me, Mrs. Cullen. This garden is quite beautiful and extensive. One would think you have unlimited time on your hands," I comment courteously. I'm simply in awe of her garden and the hundreds of flowers that permeate my nose. Her lovely-pitched laughs pull me off guard for a moment. It sounds a little frantic.

My eyes turn and search her face. I see nothing but contentment and gratification. _These Cullen's have me off-center and always second-guessing myself_, I ponder affably. _How am I ever to stay afloat? Perhaps you're not Rose . . . they allow you to be something only wished for_ . . .

I feel crazy as my mind talks to itself, but I smile nonetheless.

"Please, Rosalie, call me Esme. Remember, I've asked you several time?" she inquires sweetly. "Mrs. Cullen is for social functions and endless dinner parties. My flowers only recognize me as Esme," she quips. She may not realize, but it helps me to feel less self-conscious about talking to myself.

"How are you able to devote so much time and attention to such beauty?" I ask, wanting to change the topic from something which still makes me uncomfortable. All my life I've been Rosalie Hale; being this comfortable, light-hearted Rose still makes me unsettled in my skin.

I cast the thought from my mind, having much practice, and take in all the flowers.

The picture before me is quite exquisite. Even though the air is somewhat sweltering and I can feel my skin heating up, one cannot help but feel like they are taking a stroll in Eden itself. The only thing missing seems to be the Tree of Knowledge . . . I was never a fan of apples anyway.

Dozens of flowers touch every surface of the structure. From the hanging planter boxes hosting Martha Washington's Geraniums and Purple Osteospermum flower to the Indigenous Section, my eyes are confused as to where to look. Every color of the rainbow is accounted for and creates such a superlative and glorious spectrum.

From the moment I walked in until now, I have yet to catch my breath. I'm truly in awe. I think of a greenhouse being dirty and grubby, but Esme's puts my preconceived notions to shame. I'm embarrassed at my line of thinking, and hope my cheeks don't show too much of my discomfort.

I do, however, know greenhouses are quite rare and are usually only afforded by those with money. Surprisingly to Rosalie, the wealth doesn't seem to matter as much as the people themselves. _Is Rosalie Lillian Hale (and simply not Rose) able to grow in depth and substance_? It's a question that stays with me for the remainder of the week.

Even though the sun is hiding behind thick grey clouds, it doesn't take away from the majesty of the cultivated picturesque. It only allows the colors of the plants to shine even more radiant.

"These plants make it easy for me, not withstanding how crazy that makes me sound." Her tinkling laugher seems to bounce off the glass.

I can also imagine the plants leaning in towards her, wanting to feed off her happiness and attention. The notion can't be far from my imagination, the flowers themselves attest to her love and devotion for them. The abundance and healthy nature of them tell the story quite happily.

I giggle at her explanation. She seems to make everything around her flourish under her maternal manner. I wonder if the warmth wafting from my skin is actually from the heat of the greenhouse or Esme's attention.

"It's as if they know my devotion to them, wanting to make them beautiful and thriving," she whispers

Instead of looking to her bounteous plants, she is staring at me. It is somewhat alarming, her being able to read me so easily, but also freeing. There are no masks needed when in the privacy of her home and greenhouse. It is no wonder I feel like such an intruder when I observe her and Dr. Cullen in their intimate moments. Even though they are only watching each other, the love and tenderness is excruciatingly private. Everyone must feel like me when catching them staring at each other. I ponder about such a sweeping kind of love. It's what I envision when I think of my little ones.

"Plants, people and creatures alike thrive under that kind of attention, Rose. I know I may sound sentimental and foolish, but I believe love makes our world turn. I know of nothing more endearing, reaching and sought after. Bad things happen in this life, but intermingled is the benevolence and love. To endure the good, we must also accept the bad; as unfortunate as it may seem."

Her eyes turn somewhat misty and out of focus. I wonder what she is seeing or perhaps remembering. Esme is nothing but glorious, I cannot imagine someone ever wanting to hurt or bring misfortune in her life. Of course my relationship with her has been miniscule compared to the life she's already lived. My interpretation of her life can be far, _far_ off.

"What do you mean, Esme?" I ask her, a little scared of the answer. Her eyes become focused again and her smile luminous. However, I can still see a little longing in her eyes.

"Simply that love is irreplaceable, darling. The stories of my life and how I've come to that conclusion are left for another discussion." She puts an end to my curiosity, but there is no spite or meanness in her words.

"What is your favorite part?" she asks instead. I give her a reassuring grin, _my feelings haven't been injured_.

"The wild flowers," I whisper wistfully, not really understanding why.

"Oh yes, they also rank amongst my favorite, but my other flowers won't hear that from me," she murmurs back, conspiratorially. She gives a quick wink before walking on.

We stop at a place that seems more natural to the atmosphere than the land itself. Though we are surrounded by glass, the naturalness seems genuine. Among the Sweet Grass and Prairie Dropseed, lay the Nodding Wild Onion. The little weeping flowers look like polyps before they bloom. They are quite endearing and gorgeous. Golden Marsh Marigolds seems to add little sun drops. And one cannot forget the wild rose. I think it quite ironic. I can relate to the white flower sprinkled with pink on the unsullied petals.

"All these grasses and plants are native to the area," she explains as she takes me on a tour of her '_home away from home'_.

"I find it important to pay homage and respect to the area. I can bring in all my favorite and grand flowers, but I mustn't forget the local beauty around me. It would be almost disrespectful," she whispers as if she'd hurt someone's feelings.

I am confused by Esme, but also find her so very knowledgeable.

Small trails lead in between the natural landscape, ending at a rustic wooden bench. One wouldn't think it comfortable, but it truly is. I find that I could spend all day amongst the wildness of Upstate New York's splendor.

I willingly become lost and let my thoughts travel.

I'd never imagine the resplendent and stunning Esme to have such an infinity for plants and flowers, but then again, I shouldn't really be surprised. It's something I've learned about her character from simply watching her with Dr. Cullen. She seems to have a love and respect for all things surrounding her. I cannot fathom that type of pure affection.

_What would it feel like? Would it drive me completely insane, not being able to contain such an innocence? Would my mother have washed her hands of me, after learning I was unattainable to her will and wishes_? It's question after question that washes up against my mind.

_Do I fall short in Esme's eyes? Does she mostly see my hard edges and not the softness inside I try (but often fail) to cultivate. Does she see a difference between Rosalie and Rose? Is there such a difference_?

"Would you like to go back inside, darling?" I hear her soft voice ask.

"Please," I all but beg. Suddenly being around the flowers is overwhelming.

.

As I take my last sip of sweetened tea, my throat becomes blocked, causing me to cough harshly. I should have guessed it would be when Edward made an appearance. It seemed to happen, when the opportunity to best make a fool of myself would be presented.

"Oh my, Rosalie, . . . are you alright?" I hear Esme's slightly worried voice in my ears.

Her small hand faintly hits my back, trying to help me to swallow my clogged tea. I'm amazed at how strong she really is. It shows how one can never judge by appearance alone. _It must be from all the heavy lifting she does in the greenhouse_, I hear my mind reason. I want to chuckle stupidly; it doesn't matter that I'm in the middle of choking.

Once I manage to swallow the tea in my now sore throat, I allay her apprehension, "Fine, Esme. It simply went down the wrong tube . . . _when someone decided to enter at the most inopportune moment_," I finish sarcastically in my mind.

"If you insist, darling," she says skeptically. My throat does still sound pretty raw from the coughing fit.

"I'd be willing to take a look, Esme," I hear him volunteer slyly. _Goodness what that voice alone could solve_ . . .

I shiver from the tone caressing my skin. I can feel my cheeks pinking. I want to bury my head in the settee cushions.

". . . seeing as Carlisle is working." _Of course Carlisle is working_ . . .

"Oh, Edward, darling, I didn't notice you come in." Esme sounds more embarrassed about the situation then she should. There is no reason for her to be wholly self-conscious. I monopolized her attention, after all.

"It's of no consequence, Esme. Rose is quite entertaining." I can hear the playful banter in his tone. It was like our last meeting in the library. I smile a little, despite my aching throat.

"Edward!" she sounds scandalized. "She could have done major damage to her throat. It is not a laughing matter!" I giggle a little, wincing slightly from the rawness. I'm amazed at how protective she sounds about me. I can't help but feel my heart swell with affection for her. _These Cullen's and the emotions they summon from me_.

Esme turns toward me, and her face turns into mock-indignation. The smile in her eyes gives her away. Edward also chuckles lightly. It sounds as if the angels of heaven themselves are upon us. I can't understand how he is able to walk unobstructed down the street, what with every woman from one to hundred years of age throwing themselves at him.

"Well," she squeaks. Her chin rises regally. She stands from the settee and brushes the nonexistent wrinkles from her day skirt. "I shall leave you two _children_ to your antics. Rose, darling, come and find me when Edward is finished making sure you're well. I wouldn't want to interrupt playtime."

Even though she tries to keep angry, the happy smile takes over her lips. I wonder what she is so pleased about. I look to her brother, but he is giving her a secret, silent message. She actually smirks at him before taking her leave.

His mouth falls slightly opened, and I'm amazed. It's like a theatric performance, and I need a Strauss publication, explaining what's happening.

A few seconds pass before he rearranges his facial features into a more acceptable pose. I smile softly at his behavior. _He is so wonderfully different than everyone_ . . .

Edward gives me his undivided attention as he steps over to where I'm seated and takes up the empty spot. I'm not sure how acceptable it is, us being alone, but I find myself not really caring.

My body goes completely still as his fingers reach out and touches my neck. I'm taken aback; my eyes seek out his and stay locked. Even if able, I wouldn't want to break the connection, it feels beyond intimate.

_Is Edward thinking the same thing? Does he think me inappropriate? Does he think me too forward? Does he think me even beautiful_?

Many questions filter through my mind as I study his darkened orbs. He is so stunning and tender. My eyes want to tear up at the thought.

His chilled fingers work over my throat, feeling for any tearing, or what I assume to be. I'm not a Medical major.

"How are you feeling, love," his sweet voice whispers. Water mists my vision. Can he truly know the effect that one word has on me? _The tears are a give-away, Rose_. "Is your throat still feeling raw?"

_More than you or I could possibly imagine_ . . .

I nod minutely.

"It feels a little inflamed, but nothing damaging," he reassures me. His fingers play over my flesh for a moment longer than necessary before he pulls away. I stifle the urge to sigh dramatically at the loss of contact.

"T-Thanks," comes the expected stutter. It is almost now required when he is around me. I smile good-naturedly, knowing it won't be helped – there is no reason to get flustered or angry over it any longer. _I've made my peace with it_, I think absurdly.

My emotions are all over the place, but Edward makes me feel that freeing.

"Have you been here long?" Before I can answer he continues. "Esme didn't tell me who her guest was going to be; simply, she was inviting a new friend over for high tea." My heart flips happily at the thought of Esme considering me a friend and not a social contact or obligation. "I hope you don't think I left, having the knowledge you'd be here this afternoon. Had I known . . ."

"It's fine, Edward," I tell him amiably. I hold no ill-will or anger towards him. I couldn't think that of him. "I've been here for several hours, and perhaps Esme didn't know we were um . . . familiar with each other?"

I don't want to presume Edward and I are friends or something more indefinable. I don't want to offend him in assuming something only I feel.

When he looks at me, not commenting, I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Perhaps I've already offended him.

"Maybe I should go find Esme and make my goodbyes. I don't want to overstay my welcome. Esme has been such a fine and gracious host," I ramble stupidly.

As I go to get up, to take my leave of this sinking situation, Edward's soft voice pierces my anxiousness.

"May I show you somewhere, Rose, . . . before you leave?" he shyly asks. I only ever thought Edward assured of himself. I am more than happy to be proven wrong. If someone as wonderful and beyond gorgeous as him can find self-doubt within, then my own self-reflections and many shortcomings aren't all bad.

"Of course, Edward," I say positively. "Anything you wish."

He gives me a wobbly smile. He stands up gracefully and what seems like without any effort at all. He extends his pale and refined hand out to me. I tremble a little as I put mine in his. I feel as if my soul is all but quivering, recognizing something I don't.

"It's a place I love, go to reflect," he says as he assists me to a standing position. He gently drops my hand and starts to lead on. I follow!

"Esme tries to cultivate in me a love for natural beauties. Even though I'm jaded, one can't help to fall a little for this place. The woman has such vision for pure beauty. Even the most cynical among us has to feel something in here. I'm a testament to that truth." He falls quiet as he continues to lead me.

I feel as if Edward is revealing part of himself to me. I don't know if he is trying to warn me off, or show to me what he may think is his ugliest parts. I don't know his purpose, but it falls short with me. I can help but see the goodness he seems to refuse to see in himself.

I should be surprised when we arrive, but I'm not. I knew I liked this section for a reason beyond my comprehension.

"It's all natural to the area. There are so many artificial things around us: things we seemingly don't believe in or think are fiction." I tilt my head to the side as I listen to his monologue. I truly find myself perplexed, not understanding the lying subtext. I know, however, it's there.

"But this . . ." he whispers, pointing to the indigenous section of Esme's greenhouse, "this is real, meant to be, wild yet tenderly cultivated. I think myself unreal at times, Rose, but coming here and sitting amongst this natural wildness, I can believe myself real for a moment." I feel my eyebrows draw closely together. I don't know what to say or even how to form a reply.

And when I go to say something witty, something profoundly insightful, he floors me even more. My breath becomes stolen from me. "You give me that same feeling," he speaks ever-so-softly.

_Would my ears be so cruel as to make up those words? No_, I reason.

My eyes close of their own will. Perhaps the truth of his words hangs heavily on my body and thus my eyelids become weary. The thought make no sense, yet neither does this frantic beating in my chest.

_Is his heart beat matching the pace of mine? Do his hands sweat at the announced truth like mine? Does he feel as faint at his confession as me? Does anything overwhelm him, like his presence does me? Does he feel like an entirely different person around me, like I do around him? Am I completely crazy in not understanding these sudden and emotionally-provoking reactions he instills in me? I just don't understand myself around him _. . .

"Edward –" I start to say, but he cuts me off.

"There's no need for response, Rose. I tell you not these things to invoke some kind of confession from you. I don't know why I tell you these things," he says more to himself, as if he's trying to see the light beyond the fog.

I should be offended at his latent confession, but I'm not . . . more relieved. I'm not the only one confused and tossed about in uncertainty. It's just another coincidence to unite us.

He doesn't say anything else for a while, and I don't respond. I take in the quiet buzzing in my ears, the soft hum of his even breaths, the mixture of fragrances permeating the air and my heart thudding in my chest. I raise my head up and look at the lazy drifting clouds. The sun is about to set, and even though I can't see it beyond the grey clouds, I know it is still there and about to retire for the day.

"We're friends, love," I finally hear murmured, breaking the silence. The beating in my chest picks up at the hopeful expression. I truly want to cry. He's seen me at my worst and yet looks beyond all the imperfection. _Does he still think me beautiful on the inside_?

"Then I'm beyond fine, Edward," I answer just as reverently, delicately. He grins softly as I finally answered his long-asked question, "_How are you feeling, love?_"

The silence settles again but with a difference . . . a chilled finger is wrapped around my own. My breath catches in my chest, and if not for Edward's gentle touch keeping me grounded to the wooden bench, I would have already floated away with the slowly drifting clouds.

. .

"_How are you feeling, love?_"

_Wholly unreal, yet grounded in your friendship_.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

Author's Notes: Well, for those of you who are still reading this after the lengthy delay, **thanks**. I hope you liked the chapter. I'm not entirely happy with it, but after suffering from MAJOR writer's block I decided to post it. Goodness, it was quite painful trying to write anything through the maddening beast. Writer's block has to be a terrible form of torture.

Anyhow, thanks to all who are still with me. I have most of the next chapter written, so the delay won't be nearly, _**nearly **_as long. PROMISE. Also thanks for all the reviews. They make my day so beautifully happy.

I hope all is well with everyone, and please, if you have the time leave a review. They help more than you can ever know or imagine. Thank again, darling! So much love sent your way!

.

Factual Notes:

(1) New York businessman, Frank Vance Strauss, in 1884 approached larger theatres, offering to provide them, free of charge, with magazine-style 'theatrical programmers'. For each theatre  
>that accepted there was a special color cover and pages with cast-list and brief information about the performance. The other pages – with short articles and a considerable amount of advertising – were the same for every theatre. In the USA, the Strauss publications were being given free of charge throughout most Broadway theatres. Over the years, they had several name changes until, in 1934, the name 'The Playbill' was finally adopted.<p>

_Updated: Wednesday, 11 July 2012 _


	8. Put On a Mask

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns everything recognizable in the land of Twilight. No copyright infringement is meant.

**Put On a Mask**

"_The most important kind of freedom is to be what you really are. You trade in your reality for a __role__. You trade in your sense for an act. You give up your ability to feel, and in exchange, put on a mask.__"_

_- Jim Morrison_

_._

Beginning of July, 1932

The room is rather smoky. Even though the tea shop is frilly, it doesn't stop society ladies from enjoying their "guilty" pleasures. I've never understood the habit, but consider to each their own. We all have our vices. Mother would practically have kittens if she heard me admitting such weakness.

I try not to wrinkle my nose as Mildred exhales in my direction. One mustn't see such trifling things having an effect on me. "_Your weakness is their gain, daughter. And you are far better than they_."

Sometimes I want to ask mother if I'm truly better than her. It would garner me a slap across the face, but it'd be worth the short-lived pain, not the long time consequences.

"He was positively dreary, darlings," Hazel warbles on. "I told father it simply couldn't be. I shan't become acquainted, yet alone engaged to a man with such a terrible complexion and boring personality. Truly, what were my parents thinking?" she hems while studying her fingernails. Her manicure is perfect, not unlike my own; however, she continues to search for any imperfection. _The story of our lives_.

"I can empathize with your plight, dear," Mildred coos disgustingly. I want to sneer at her pandering.

I hold my tongue while keeping my mask so firmly in place. Many cruel things pass through my mind, but are safely guarded behind my mask.

_As if you could ever talk, Mildred, darling. You're as repulsive as your name and barely skimming our social circles. What man would want such a sniveling, smelly, trying-to-be-pretentious suck up_?

I don't say any of these things, but plaster an agreeable smile on my lips. Society can be terribly tedious at times. I bat my thick lashes a few times, letting concern shine through. It's almost too easy, if not horridly boring.

Both Mildred and Hazel look over to me, waiting for my input. Hazel may try and act Queen Bee, but she knows the final word lies with me.

"It's quite dreadful, darling. To think, one's own father would ever sanction such a man near his sanctimonious daughter," I fuss regrettably over her. It's clear she doesn't understand my description of her as she smiles gratefully at me.

_Truly, don't these ladies ever pick up a book? Not even almost-destitute Mildred seems to understand. Their lost brains are my gain_.

"In times of my terrible times, it's wonderful to know I have my friends to comfort me." She picks up her lace napkin from her lap and daintily sniffles into it. I want to roll my eyes at her lack of compassion.

People are going days without food; children are dying from starvation; many people are taking their own lives wanting to escape such a grim, horrific, depressed reality, and Hazel believes herself to be suffering.

"Where else would we be, dear?" Mildred sickly asks. _Does her pride know any bounds_? She brings her slim cigarette to her lips again, pulls deeply and exhales, in what she can only think to be enchanting, enticing even.

Hazel's napkin is placed over her nose as her little hand clears the air around her. It seems as if we agree on one thing.

"Honestly, Mildred! Must you blow that revolting smell near me? How many times have I asked you not to? Plus, mother claims smoking gives one premature wrinkles. And let's be honest, darling; you can use all the help you can afford." Her scathing comments are quite harsh. Mildred's cheeks become flush and her hand trembles as she puts out her cigarette.

I want to feel sorry for her, but I'm only grateful no more smoke is sullying my clothes and hair. It's very common, for our peers and parents to partake in the vice, but it still doesn't mean I like smelling of it.

I once asked Hazel why she tolerated Mildred when it was so obvious she hardly endured the girl.

"_It's a necessary evil, Rosalie. Mildred is short of dreadful in the looks department and makes anyone look twice as better. Mother encourages me, and I can't complain about how she all but trips over herself to be in my presence. Isn't it quite yummy?" she softly, maliciously inquired. _

"_Yes, Hazel. Quite," I answer in a bored tone. She looked at me as her cheeks flushed. It was obvious she caught my drift. While Hazel was pretty, dainty and appealing, she was nowhere near my league. No one could compete with my beauty. Her eyes drifted down as if she is literally embarrassed. _

_Mother had been quite thrilled to hear of that story. "It's your rightful place, Rosalie Lillian," mother claimed. I basked in her hardly-given praise_.

Mildred finally raises her head, her wounded gaze seeking me out. I truly should feel terrible for her, but it isn't to be. When one allows such a spectacle to be made, then one must endure the consequences. I know the truth of that lesson. I live it every day with my mother and her demanding rules.

My face remains composed and uncaring; bored even. I shrug my shoulder delicately, as if to tell her it's beneath my notice, and I shan't do anything.

I pull my attention from the petty grievance as I pick up my tea and sip soundlessly. Inwardly I cringe at how cold it's gotten. The good cup of tea was the only good thing in my afternoon.

_Oh, well, I shall be done here, soon. One can only hope_, I think unkindly.

" . . . and aren't you positively tickled for the party, Rosalie. It shall be great fun. Think of all the men that will be in attendance. It may not be the social event like the Governor's Ball, but definitely on the event calendar of the season." I give her a small smile, wanting to be away from such inane conversation.

I think of my golden-haired little ones and the opportunity to look for a husband. Such important and heart-endearing thoughts get me through the afternoon of tea and gratuity.

"It's such a shame," she titters, trying to shamelessly sneak glances at her puppet, Mildred, "that some aren't invited. To think . . . not being on one's social invite list. It would be completely mortifying. How can such a lady hold her head up high?" she asks mockingly aghast.

I should be surprised at her cruelty, but I'm not. It's a role all well-bred ladies of leisure are to act. But one moment or one faux pas could send one's social standing tumbling. I truly shudder at mother's reaction if it were to ever happen to me. Her stunt with the medical doctor checking to see if I still had my virginity unbroken would seem like child's play.

"Tis' true, dear. It isn't to be suffered. Of course, to think my name not on any list is wholly laughable; inconceivable. Who would not want Rosalie Hale at their soirée? It would be quite dull," I say as if it is the most obvious thing in the world.

I bring my hand up and make sure all of my beautiful golden hair is in place. It draws their attention to something I have which they envy. I bit my lower lip and tilt my head elegantly, inquiringly towards my unwanted companions, waiting for their automatic answers.

It's such a pity they cannot hide their jealously better. Mother would laugh at them in scorn. I simply remind myself it's all for a higher purpose. All things worth truly having are worth fighting for.

"Too true, Rosalie, darling," Hazel pays homage to Queen Bee. She knows her place is beneath me. It wouldn't do well to upset me. The envy in her eyes has faded and is replaced with her sickly sweet, adoring smile. "I cannot imagine someone not ever wanting you. Isn't that right, Mildred, dear?"

She quickly and predictably agrees. I sit back, make sure to keep my posture perfect and soak in their fake adulation.

"Anyhow, darlings, have I told you about Constance. The poor dear, she ended up bleaching her hair some awful forsaken color. To think, white-blonde hair would look good with her already washed-out complexion. She looked positively silly, and I was all but in stitches trying not to laugh in the poor dear's face. Virginia and I had to hurry and leave before . . ."

And on and on the dreadful conversation continues. If one could even define such gossip and back-biting as conversation. Cringing inside, I keep my fake smile shining through, pretending to be completely enraptured.

All the while I study the room, making sure no one is quite as fetching as me. Women sit drinking their tea and eating the delicate sandwiches that come with the service. Some women are smoking while others are listening intently to their companion's conversation. They come in all different sizes, hair colors and fashions. I can admit some are pretty, beautiful even. But I can safely admit, none are as lovely as me. I do honestly wonder, at times, how my parents were able to create my beauty. It's something that's always boggles me.

While much of my vanity comes from my well-practiced public persona, I also admit to being somewhat conceited. Without Rosalie Lillian Hale, I'm not quite sure who I truly am. Besides wanting desperately to be a mother, I don't know anything else truly intimate about myself.

That girl Edward seems to bring out, still scares me. But with his patience, encouragements and handsomely sweet smiles, I find I like getting to know her.

"My dress is imported from Paris and all the rage in _Vogue and Harper's Bazaar_." Hazel pulls me from such lovely thoughts back into reality. It's such a shame.

Friday will be the dreaded event, and while I genuinely love to dress up and look stunning, I shan't be looking forward to it. It's just another event that will preclude me from seeing Edward once again. Some things seem exceedingly unfair.

Hollywood Glitz is the theme, as if impersonating stars at this "fundraiser" will alleviate the plight of the poor, stop the awful Depression and truly focus on such heart-splitting conditions. At least it's the Rochester General Medical Board putting on the Soirée. Most of the money raised may actually make it to the helpless.

_One can only hope_.

And one can only hope, with Carlisle sitting on the board, that all the Cullen's will be in attendance. Although I know it's an exercise in uselessness. Edward has already assured me he isn't to attend.

"_I cannot stand the tedious company, Rose. If it were some accolade for Carlisle or Esme I should attend. But putting on Airs and consorting with our social class is something I'm not interested in. Esme and Carlisle shall make my apologizes. It's quite unfortunate my parents' Estate had business to attend to on the same night." _

_A sly, tantalizing smile played on his lips. Goodness, the boy was beyond gorgeous. How could one do it so effortlessly? It boggled my mind._

"_Yes, Edward," I pretended to pout, trying to garner his sympathy. "It's absolutely shameful." His laugh reverberated around the high ceilings._

"_Only you, Rose, love." I melted like butter. _

I'm saddened he won't be there, but perhaps it will be easier to keep my mask in place. Edward does tend to bring out emotions in me that mother would like smothered.

I turn my mind from him and back to my tea. This afternoon seems never-ending.

_Sigh_.

. .

The reception hall at the hotel (for the fundraiser) is what I expect. Even though the event isn't as prestigious as the ball, it still holds a charm of its own.

The Governor's Ball was quite eloquently breathtaking. The old world exquisite design of the ballroom matched the women dripping in diamonds and the gentlemen looking beyond debonair in their three piece tuxedos. The authentic crystal chandeliers had sparkled spectacularly and danced light off of the beautifully wallpapered walls and the wine glasses filled with champagne.

And while this party is also beautiful, it rings a certain nouveau, with the gold silk canopy hanging from the center of the ceiling to the stationary street lamps placed intermittently around the large hall. Their light casts beautifully dark pockets of shadow. It gives it the flare of a true Hollywood set. The ambiance fits in perfectly with the soiree's theme.

Waiters pass through the crowd like flowing wind, felt but not seen. They play their role as employees flawlessly. Guests hardly pay attention anyhow, yet their champagne flutes miraculously stay filled. I want to roll my eyes at their attempt of snobbery, but restrain. Such isn't the place for displays of disapproval. Mother would be most displease.

Unlike the waiters, when I pass through the clustered crowds, I can't help but be noticed. It isn't any wonder on my part. Such beauty as mine isn't to be ignored or stymied. If so, it is done out of jealously and spite. When one doesn't have my loveliness, it's easy to see one's cattiness and ill-feelings. I take such reaction and let it feed my mask, let it run though my veins and sustain my tremulous nerves.

However, one doesn't see the process. They only see the perfection that lingers on the surface, on the ridge of my skin. They only see what skims the surface of my thoughts, only what I allow them to see. Mother's training is stained into my mind. I cannot forget such lessons. It would be foolish of me to.

There is one guest who has the capacity to make me fall apart at the seams. Her sparkling gemstone eyes gazes through to my very core. She seems able to see beyond the impenetrable walls I place around me at such functions and in public. Even Edward, for all his eerily insightful talent in reading people, cannot see in as far as Esme. I like to think it has something to do with woman's intuition. Or there is a deeper connection we share, something I cannot quite place.

I already make my conversations with the Cullen's. I give Carlisle a very warm greeting, allowing him to kiss the knuckles of my left hand. Though his lips are slightly chilly, my fingers seem to heat up under his skilled attention. Esme must have a beastly of a time keeping women in check around the debonair doctor. His "talent" is in very high demand and sought after.

"Lovely as ever, Ms. Hale," he compliments. I can't contain the pink tingling my cheeks. I feel on display as I search out Esme's reaction. She only seems tickled happy. She must know the thoughts running madly though each and every woman Carlisle greets. Esme gives me a covert wink and I feel myself sigh.

"Thank you, sir. The fundraiser seems to be quite the smashing hit." I feel utterly stupid under his penetrating gaze. Even though my mask is in place, I can't help but think he is sizing me up. He must know of his brother's and my peculiar friendship, yet alone his wife.

"That is does, my dear. It is even more of a success with you gracing our presence. It's a shame some decide to hide in the shadows and miss out on such a beauty."

This time my cheeks flare red. Though I don't understand his little riddle, I understand his compliment. He truly has quite a way with people, and even with my well-trained mask, I cannot help but fall victim to his charm.

"Um, thank you again, I believe," I stumble horridly. I quickly look around and make sure mother is nowhere near.

His laugh fills the space between us, creeping pleasantly onto my skin. I calm myself, reminding my turbulent mind that I'm beautiful and no one can compete with my beauty. My thought process wouldn't make sense to a lot of people, but it has become my cloak, covering and blanketing me in a solid truth. It helps me to stay grounded.

"What is so funny, darling?" Esme asks, finally finishing up with her other conversation. She gives Carlisle a swift, yet loveable kiss to his cheek. Such displays of affection between them seem so private, as if I'm intruding on something as innocent as a peck to the cheek.

"Nothing, Esme, dear. I'm simply enjoying our Ms. Hale's company. Is it a crime to laugh at tedious functions?" My mouth wants to fall open at his honest comment about the benefit, but I refrain. I'd look terribly ridiculous.

"Never, my love. Rosalie is always enchanting." I turn for a moment, trying to catch my breath around these Cullen's. They always seem to have me at such a disadvantage. Not that it's such a bad thing.

"Thank you, Mrs. Cullen," I reply softly, falling back on good manners. Even though Esme and I are quite friendly, I feel it rude to address her as anything else in public and around the doctor's subordinates.

"I was telling Ms. Hale, here, that places in the shadows cannot truly see how lovely she is. It only obscures her charm." I truly want to turn away again, but don't. Once again I'm confused by the vague reference.

I watch as the married couple share a look only they can understand between them. Something seems to pass over Esme's exquisite face before it fades. I know I'm not mistaken, yet I cannot process the queer look. Her lips wobble for a moment before she turns to me again.

"I agree, darling." My friend gives me a dazzling smile that would have every man here on his knees, begging her to have them in any type of capacity. She could have quite the harem of slaves if she chose. I smile at the secret thought before letting my public persona slip effortlessly back into place.

Someone to our right calls out to Carlisle. He bends over my hand, places one more kiss over the knuckles, tells me how delighted he was before giving his attention to another person. He is the quintessential gentleman.

"My Carlisle," Esme says long-suffering. I know it only to be a jest. It's clear she adores the ground he walks on. We both share a secret laugh. It's the laugh all ladies share with over an exasperated man.

"Anyhow, darling," she starts, officially changing the subject, "your gown is quite stunning. How do you always seem to outdo yourself?"

I take her compliment to heart. I truly pale in comparison to Esme; something I've come to accept, graciously. But I quite love my gown. The light green satin gown shapes oh-so-marvelously to my curves. It's the vogue style of art deco; the back is cut out and woven with sparkling rhinestones. The front is sleeveless and dips into a v-cut. Words couldn't express how I fell in love with the dress. Though it is slightly indecent and more revealing than I normally wear, even mother agreed with me.

"_You simply must own it, Rosalie. Such a dress would turn every man's head_."Mother's prediction had turned out correctly. I feel like a queen in the evening dress.

"Luck, Mrs. Cullen. The dress seemed to have found me," I tell her honestly. She gives me another dazzlingly smile.

My mind thinks of Edward as I stare into her glimmering eyes.

"Was Edward not able to make it, then?" I ask. Even I can hear the light tremor in my voice. It embarrasses me. I pull myself together and only allow myself to feel the sad disappointment churning my stomach. She doesn't even need to answer the question. I can see her sadness and pity for me lingering on her visage.

"He sends his regards, darling," she consoles me softly, staring over my right shoulder. She can't even stand to see the sadness on my face. I don't blame her.

Once again, I rearrange my features, making sure they are the essence of grace and refinement. Edward had already warned me. Why should I feel such a crushing dejection? I like to believe his absence has nothing to do with me and everything to do with his aversion to such 'tedious functions'.

"Please thank him for me later and tell him his presence was missed. Could you please do that for me, Mrs. Cullen?" She turns back to me, something lingering in her eyes I can't comprehend.

"I shall, darling. Make no mistake about it." My friend gives me a subtle wink before taking a sip of her chosen drink.

"How is the garden coming along? I feel like I'm in such a wonderland there." I praise her truthfully. Esme talents seem to know no bounds. She and Carlisle are so wonderfully matched.

We gab for a few more moments before several people start circling around us. It's nothing new for me. Several people always circle around me at such parties, wanting my attention, having a desire to bask in my splendor.

_Masquerade firmly back in place_, I hear my mind say.

"It seems your attention is required elsewhere, darling," she titters slyly, watching the men around us. "You do look quite enchanting tonight, and I would have been remiss if I'd missed the chance to have the pleasure of your company tonight, Rose, darling." My façade slips at her quite blunt honesty. She never ceases to amaze me.

"Thank you, Esme," I whisper softly, for her ear only. She gives me an endearing smile before kissing both of my cheeks.

We share one more look of sisterhood before she's off and looking for the distracted doctor.

I allow my mind to drift, but only for a second before pulling my wits about me. The interlude is over and the show must go on. My shoulders fall back, my chin rises and my face become the grace of radiance.

_No one here can compete with my beauty_. Every gentlemen's hungry look towards me tells me the truthfulness of my foundation.

So I preen shyly under the attention of others. I let them think me timid and submissive. "_It's what draws a rich man to your attention, Rosalie," she lectured. "One doesn't want brass in a wife, but eloquent and soft spoken. Oh, show them occasionally you have a working and functional mind, but never let them linger there too long. Your greatest gift is beauty, Rosalie. You would blind them all._"

"Well, if it isn't the sensational and ever incredible Miss. Hale?" Lawrence Andrews praises me. I turn around and grant him the full spectrum of my attention. _At least for a little while_.

I tilt my chin down and my head to the side. I look up through my heavy lashes and bat them several times. I watch as his eyes glaze over somewhat before they begin to clear. I give a coy smile, making sure my cheeks become pink.

"You seem to get only lovelier. I often ask myself how it's possible." Not the actual words but the sincerity in his voice truly causes me to blush. I can feel as my cheeks become heated. It takes a lot to surprise a natural blush. The only whom seems capable is Edward. And now Lawrence. S_omething to ponder later_.

"Thank you, Mr. Andrews," I reply softly, honestly. "You look quite debonair yourself tonight." _And goodness does he_.

While his tuxedo isn't as fancy as the one from the ball, it is no less expensive. The deep black of his silk fabric only enhances his light brown hair and clear blue eyes. His skin is perfection and looks as if it never needs a shave. His fingers are long and curl around his champagne flute. And even though they aren't tapered like a piano player, they are still quite fetching.

The Andrews Family is old money. His family invested in property and land, making thousands if not millions. It's something I know quite well. Mother keeps me informed and educated on all the "acceptable" eligible men in our social circle. Lawrence Andrews is someone she considers very acceptable for my future husband.

It's something I've also considered. I could see his face in my children. I'd think we'd make beautiful children. Of course, he is only one of the eligible suitors. And even though he comes from old money, his family isn't the most influential or prominent in Rochester.

"I fall in comparison to you, Miss. Hale. It's like asking a candle to give one warmth when there is a roaring fire not five feet away." Again, I cannot contain the light blush staining my cheeks. It's actually embarrassing. Natural reactions make me weary. I like to be in control and well-practiced.

"I don't have a reply, Mr. Andrews." I look at him, letting him see the honesty in my eyes but for a moment. The mask comes back over me, but he cannot tell the difference. Only in my mind can I feel the momentary slip. It's a gift he doesn't relatively know I've given him.

"No need. So tell me, Miss. Hale, how have your university course being going? Is this not your first year at university?"

I want to gawk at him, let my mouth fall open and stare in surprise. _How can he be so intimate with my schedule? Does he know of my meetings with Edward_? All these questions fly through my head, but are hidden deeply beneath my mask. The only thing on the surface is my staggering beauty and mock introversion.

"How are you familiar with my schedule?" I ask politely. I don't scold or ridicule. Mother would faint if she knew I ever treated a potential suitor in such an unladylike manner. I take a quick, dainty sip of my champagne.

"You need not be surprised or weary, Miss. Hale." I know he isn't referring to my solid facial expressions. My mask has yet to drop, except for the bit of honesty I showed earlier.

I let my head fall gracefully to the side as I continue to study the handsome man before me. Conversation and light music drift around us, but Lawrence has my immediate attention, something not easily accomplished.

"You must know or even realize that someone as stunning as you would be studied. It's no surprise that many a gentlemen would kill for the honor of you becoming their better half, Miss. Hale. Therefore it stands to reason that such knowledge of you would be sought after. I'm no slouch in that department." He gives me a very charming smile and a flirty wink.

I want to truly laugh at his slightly salacious behavior but refrain. It would be unbefitting in such public company. Instead I give a brilliant smile, one I know can render him speechless. My cheeks feel a little sore as my muscles stretch widely, but I know it pays off.

Lawrence's' eyes once again become somewhat glazed, and I smirk internally. _No one here can compete with my beauty. I outshine everyone_. I let the mask continue to swirl in my thoughts. I never knew Lawrence Andrews to be so charming and forthright.

"Well, regardless of all that," I start demurely, "my courses are quite fantastic. I enjoy learning new knowledge and gaining a better understanding of our environment and world we reside in."

Though I'm not really into politics or trying to solve the answers of the Depression, I do like to keep informed of events around me. It is to be the world my children will be raised in. I want to be a protective and informed mother. I want to give my children every opportunity, but also have the knowledge to provide for them if ever necessary. Everything I do is for my future children. But it is a secret kept in the deep recesses of my heart.

_No one here can compete with my beauty. I outshine everyone_, I let swirl in my mind, blocking anything else coming to the forefront. It wouldn't do well to have my mask drop.

I must stay diligent. And even though I cannot see mother in my eye-line sight, I can still feel her gaze on the back of my neck and slightly bare back. It sends chills running along my flesh. I ignore the intrusion.

"What course interest you the most, Miss. Hale?" he questions, as if truly wanting to know about my education and not some fabricated attempt to see how stupid I seem to be.

I answer his continued questions. And though I become more comfortable with him, I never allow my facade to fall. It's something I've worked too hard maintaining.

As the conversation flows and times passes I watch others around me. I'm involved in the conversation, but also aware of my surroundings. It's something that Clarence has educated me in.

"_She has to be some kind of witch_," I hear whispered cattily behind me. "_How can Lawrence Andrews be interested in such a dried-up, boring snob? She's terrible_!" I go on speaking, pretending I don't hear their snide comments towards me. I've heard the insults all before.

"_I know, darling. One would think she's the end all, be all. Is that even her original hair color? I hear her mother makes her dye it. I hear old Lillian Hale makes dear Rosalie do a lot of things. Imagine . . . like mother, like daughter_."

Their shrill laughter rings in my ears, but I refuse to allow it to affect me. _I'm more than they will ever be. Their jealously knows no bounds and it's something I've always endured_.

"Well, your education is a credit to you, Miss. Hale," Lawrence says. He seems to speak louder as he continues. "One would think that such beauty has to be accompanied by such a beautiful mind. I cannot bare those insipid ladies whom only seem to expound on the latest fashion or gossip. Goodness only knows how shallow their minds are." I bring my folded napkin to my lips and cover my slight giggles.

I hear the ladies behind me scoff as if affronted by Lawrence's comments.

"Oh, don't let me fool you, Mr. Lawrence. I can wax poetic about the latest fashion and gossip. For instance," I lean in closer, "did you know Elise's father is stepping out, working long, arduous hours with his 'secretary'. Yet their financial troubles would suggest otherwise." My voice is sickly sweet. There is no malice or edge to my voice, thus making the blow even more severe. _Do those spiteful cats not think I know who they are simply because I can't see their faces_? _No one here can compete with my beauty. I outshine everyone_.

"On my honor as a gentleman, Miss. Hale, I shall never take you for granted." A graceful giggle escapes my lips as I bask under his attention. I hear more snide comments but they are accompanied with the clacking of their heels as they retreat.

_Oh, the beautiful agony of defeat. One should know they cannot outshine Rosalie Lillian Hale. I'm the grandest of them all. _

"Indeed, Mr. Andrews." Our conversation continues in another vein for a few minutes longer. The evening is lingering down and it is a fine way to end the party.

We end our very pleasant conversation on cordial goodbyes, but I can see and sense a longing in him. Though his eyes are amiable, there's something deeper under the surface. He doesn't give anything else away beside his salutations.

As I make my way out of the emptying ball room, I see my mother and father already heading to the main entrance. Both have their outerwear on and ready to depart. My father, as if sensing me, turns around and gives me a rather indulgent smile. I give him the most real smile I can muster for the night and hold up my hands. Ten minutes I signal to him, letting him know I shall be joining them shortly.

I know it won't be much of a problem. Mother will take the time to review the evening's success with father. He'll listen patiently, or tune her out when needed. I think his skill in handling her is what's kept their marriage together.

I quickly turn the corner and head for the ladies room. Though we could be home in twenty minutes, I don't think I can last.

When I'm through and refreshed once again, I head out of the powder room and head for the coat checkout. The band has stopped playing and faint voice can still be heard. The clicking of my heels and the sweeping of my dress on the floor accompanies me.

I pick up the front of my dress, not wanting to trip on the gorgeous fabric. Only two minutes have passed since I signaled father. I shall have plenty of time to meet them in the awaiting car.

As I go to turn the corner, my breath clogs in my throat and my feet render me immovable. I feel as if lightening has just struck me dumb along with stopping my heart for a time. My empty hand comes to my lips as a gasp falls from them.

In front of me, as handsome and princely as ever, is my recent dream. I'm confused and, for some unattainable reason, quite sad. _What will become of this confrontation_? From the unyielding look on his beautiful visage, I cannot guess. _Or perhaps I'd rather not_.

_Oh my_.

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Author's Notes: "Oh, my," is right, Miss. Hale. So, we have a little cliffhanger. Sorry, for that, loves. The chapter was already long enough and ready to end. Also, hopefully the suspense will have you coming back for more. I can only hope.

So, I'd like to thank those who reviewed last chapter. As always, darlings they are so appreciated and enjoyed. Just taking those extra few seconds, makes me happy in ways you can never imagine! Thank you, truly!

Well, what'd you think of this chapter? What do you think of Rosalie's evening dress? I thought it so stunning! Did you like the little party? If you have the time please, please review! I can't ask any other way!

Anyhow, I hope all is well with everyone, and for once I was able to keep my promise. I did post on Tuesday. Yay. The next chapter is all but written. If I get enough enticement, I just may post early (*smirks stupidly*). Like in a couple of days. Just saying, but feel free to ignore me . . . LOL.

Take care, darlings. And until next time, so much love sent to all.

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(1) Rosalie's evening gown is the one in the story's image at the top of the page. I tried putting in the link to see it full size but couldn't get it to post. Also you can google image it. Simply put in the search box, light green satin evening gown C.1932. It should be the first two images to pop up.

_Posted: Tuesday, 17 July 2012_


	9. Not Be Fooled

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns everything recognizable in the land of Twilight. No copyright infringement is meant.

**Not Be Fooled**

"_I tell you everything that is really nothing, and nothing of what is everything, do not be __fooled__ by what I am saying. Please listen carefully and try to hear what I am not saying.__"_

_- Charles C. Fi__nn_

.

Previously

_I pick up the front of my dress, not wanting to trip on the gorgeous fabric. Only two minutes have passed since I signaled father. I shall have plenty of time to meet them in the awaiting car._

_As I go to turn the corner, my breath clogs in my throat and my feet render me immovable. I feel as if lightening has just struck me dumb, along with stopping my heart for a time. My empty hand comes to my lips as a gasp falls from them. _

_In front of me, as handsome and princely as ever, is my recent dream. I'm confused and, for some unattainable reason, quite sad.__What will become of this confrontation__? From the unyielding look on his beautiful visage, I cannot guess. __Or perhaps I'd rather not__ . . . _

_Oh my!_

. .

I feel as if I'm about to choke. The oxygen stuck in my throat refuses to move. My eyes feel as if they are spinning wildly out of control, and my heart is all but sure to leap from my chest. My palms begin to sweat; I want to cringe at the terrible clammy feeling. My mask, which I so beautifully held up this evening all but shatters. But as I've come to anticipate, it's the norm around _him_.

_Why should this evening be any different? Why should his sudden and wholly unexpected appearance sway me any differently? And goodness, do I wish it would_.

Edward finally takes a small step towards me and with it, the air lodges from my throat. The lining now feels raw and parched. I wish for a glass of water to sooth the dryness, or perhaps a mood-inducing glass of champagne. If I were to call out, would a waiter bring one to me suddenly? Such a crazy thought to have in a moment, but my sanity seems to slip with Edward's appearance.

I swallow hard, grimacing as it seems to burn my esophagus. My eyelids blink several times in rapid succession, convincing me he is truly here.

_But he told me otherwise_, my mind reasons. _Esme and Carlisle told me the same. What reason would they have to lead me differently? Especially Esme_.

As my mind bombards me with several more questions, I take in the handsome contours of his face. Nothing has really changed, but there is a noticeable difference in the warmth I have become accustomed to seeing on his visage. His lips are straight with no hint of a smile. His eyes are focused and staring directly into mine. They look to be as hard as the gemstone color they represent.

His glorious hair is rakishly disorganized, only adding to his exceptional appeal. Only one line between his eyebrows gives anything away. It is creased, as if he is trying to figure something out. My heart beats so frantically as I wait for him to say something, to give me any indication what he is trying to see in me.

It's as if a veil is lifted from my eyes, from my mind, and I can all but see what he must be thinking. My hands continue to perspire and my shoulders suddenly sag. I have been at an unfair advantage all evening. It is all but clear now.

"How long were you here, Ed-Edward?" I question sadly, stumbling in my desolation.

He studies me for a moment longer before he answers. As he speaks, his emotions start to leak into his eyes. My heart falls at the realization, something my body seemed to have already riddled out.

"Long enough, Rosalie." My full name falling from his lips is the only indication I need to gauge his mood. It lacks the essential warmth.

I can feel something in me. I can't name it, but I can feel it as assuredly as I'm beautiful. It's telling me to run, to get out while I'm still unbroken. It's silly to think I could have such an absurd reaction to this magnificent boy in front of me, after only being in his acquaintance for a couple of months. But when are matters of the heart ever rational?

"I don't understand, Edward," I tell him softly, confusedly. Tears cloud my eyes, and I can't comprehend why the sudden reaction. My skin starts to itch with anticipation and breaks out in gooseflesh.

"What's there to understand, pray tell?" His tone is ice covered in silk. I can only imagine it is even softer than the material of my gown.

I rub my arms, cold under his intense stare. I find there is no answer to his probably rhetorical question. I shake my head in confusion. _Can he see the despair on my face? Is he able to see the tough façade I wore at the party all but crumbled_?

"You sure seemed incredibly aware tonight, Miss. Hale. Why the sudden confusion? Is this nothing but a game you play with me?"

No matter how much I will it, the first tear falls from my left eye. It rolls pitifully down my reddened skin. His hostility escapes my grasp. Many reasons can account for his behavior, but I can't remember when I seemed to have wronged him.

"I play no games with you, Edward. I have no guile where you're concerned." I swipe at the fallen tears, turning my eyes from his scowl. It hurts like nothing I've experienced.

"Your ever-changing personalities would suggest otherwise," he all but sneers. _How much can a body hurt before it wants to crumble? How much can I take from the one person who has held me at a constant disadvantage_?

"No," I plead forthrightly. "You miss understand."

"I beg to differ." And the tightness he holds so rigidly cracks minutely. Hurt shines in his eyes, and even though he turns from me the next moment, as if trying to hide it, the damage is done. I've seen the truth. In some horrid way, I've upset him, disappointed him.

I pillage through my mind, trying to find the exact occasion in which I've hurt him. Nothing specific comes to the forefront.

"Please, Edward! You speak of not playing games, tell me how I've hurt you," I implore him. The emotions in my voice are thick, and I wonder how they don't get stuck in my still dry throat.

I go to instinctively reach out to him, ignoring decorum and social graces. It's seems imperative to comfort him. He backs away from me, as if my touch can somehow taint his very pale skin.

I recoil my hand and wrap it around my stomach. Perhaps if I hold it there long enough the violent churning in my stomach will desist. I can't understand why I haven't become sick everywhere. The acid has already burned my esophagus raw. My eyes become blurry again, making him seem like a watercolor painting, almost unsettled.

"How many roles are you able to play, Rosalie? How much of everything you confided in me was even truthful? Did our interactions mean anything to you beside some sick kind of practice for your next starring role in public? Rosalie Hale: beautiful, untouchable, cold, coyly beguiling, _the Grande Dame of the most elite_," he finishes his cruel, yet sadly accurate, description.

I wonder if anymore disgust can wrap around his perfect portrayal of me. I'm all those things and more. It's how I've been raised and trained to depict. No words even come to defend my actions; it's how I always intended to act.

"I can't defend myself, Edward," I tell him tiredly, dejectedly. "It's how I always am in public, at _some_ party. I don't know any differently. Whether you are there or not, I would have acted the same." I give him the solid truth. "Probably even more so."

Anger, along with confusion, swirl in his amber orbs.

Had I known of his presence previously, I would have been even more rigid. I would have surely become distracted, thus having to put even more ice into my mask.

"But it doesn't define me," I say shakily. It has to be the truth of me. "It's but a mere act. You mean so much more to me than I can even intimate," I say to him, giving him the deepest, scariest part of my truth. It's as if I'm laid bare to him. My slightly suggestive dress seems all the more risqué.

He's silent for a time, only studying my face. It's as if he's searching for any fallacy, any misleading notion I may have told him. I can only imagine how I must look to him. I know my face is droopy, all but surrendered to erratic emotions.

My arms and fingers are fidgety, wet as they try to grasp at my flesh. My entire body is filled with anxiousness and fear. I know it lingers on more than just the surface of my skin; it's swimming in my very veins.

I give all that I can to Edward and continue to wait for his reaction. Will he tear me down to my lowest level? Will he understand my public persona, the role I must play in order to fulfill my deepest desire? Have I only set myself up for failure, or will my truthfulness redeem me in his splendid eyes?

My suspicions are answered as he begins to talk. I back slowly and shakily away with each syllable that leaves his gorgeous lips. _He's always so beautiful, even in disillusionment_.

"You're not what I expected, Rosalie. Perhaps I was always fooling myself. I tell myself to stick with what I know, what is proven! For a moment I seemed to have lost myself, but it all seems forgotten now. Never should I have allowed my eyes to be blinded."

He answers my unspoken questions impeccably.

"E-Edward," I start to cry miserably. My mind tries to comfort me as my heart tries to leap out and go to him. It wants to reject me. The two opposing sides play even more havoc with my sinking despair.

"I imprudently listened, knowing deeply that it was wrong. How could I have been so negligent, so reckless?" His words are a reflection on only himself. He doesn't even look at me as he righteously blames himself.

"Edward?" I whisper again, confusedly. My head swerves from side to side in disbelief. I don't understand his rebuke and whom he supposedly listened to.

"I was only ever fooling myself. Never was I meant to be friends with you. We are so entirely different, Rosalie. I can do this no longer!"

_No_ . . .

My breath stops wholly at his last statement. I can't think straight, and I feel as if I can no longer function properly. What have I truly done?

"Please, don't say that," I completely beg, forgetting I have any dignity. What good would it even do me without the greatest comfort I've ever had? "I need you in my life, Edward. I can't even explain why, but I do. What you saw tonight is but a small part of me. It's the persona I dawn in public. The girl you bring out in me is entirely yours. I wouldn't know how to be like that for anyone else. Please, _please_, don't remove your friendship from my life."

I have nothing left to give him. My coffers are empty, given unreservedly to him. My pride lays at my feet in tatters, and they only wait for his skilled hands to put them back together.

For a moment, I see _Edward; _the one who saved me from a broken elevator; the one who comforted a discombobulated girl he knew not; the one who spoke to me gently and beautifully; the one I've come to regard in the highest esteem; the one I dream of at night and long to see every hour of the day; the one who has etched himself into my very skin. _Edward_.

His eyes shine with the compassion he shows only to me. He goes to take a step towards me. I can make out his hand reaching forward. And before I can reciprocate his action, he stops. The small, fragmented light leaves his eyes and is replaced with a fierce determination. Without him even speaking, I know the outcome. I've somehow lost.

Tears fall quickly from my eyes and I do nothing to stop the flow. What would even be the point?

"I can't, Rosalie. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me. You seem infinitely more comfortable being the girl I saw tonight than what you ever were with me. I could never compete for that girl, Rosalie. I could never compete with Lawrence Andrews or any other beau that would want your attentions. It would never be fair of me to even want that. What they can give you, I never could."

"And what's that," I croak out, surprised by the deep vulnerability in my tone. I don't even know where the question comes from.

"Normality, stability. I go against the grain of every social grace. Your world is so far removed from my own. I should have never stepped into it. I can't do this any longer, Rosalie," he finishes quietly.

For a moment we are joined in our heartache. And no matter the words that just escaped his lips, I know we are feeling the same. The longing is momentarily clear in his glorious eyes.

I'm so confused. _He speaks as if he's angry with me about my actions tonight, yet he claims not to be the same as other gentlemen in our social circle. Where does he truly stand? No matter, I don't want to be without him either way_.

"Please," is all I can whisper. I shake my head in steep denial. _He can't mean what he's just spoken. This has to be a wronged figment of my overactive imagination. This is so terribly wrong_!

"It's finished, Rosalie. You're not the person I believed. Your vanity is astounding and completely opposite of what you lead me to believe. Lies, it's all been lies. You're beautiful, _love_," he scorns. There is no flattery in his description of me. I feel nothing but cold at his endearment. "But so _imperfect_."

_Truths I'm already well acquainted with_ . . .

With the last scrap of my dignity thrown away, I speak once more, "_Please_."

"It isn't enough, Rosalie Hale. You were never the person I imagined. Goodbye, darling."

And before I can reach out, beseech him to stay, or even throw myself at his feet, he walks past me and out of my sight."

My hands tremble from the crushing blow I feel to my stomach. My lip quivers as I bite down. My eyes stings as useless tears drop from my overflowing sockets. Finally, my knees that I demanded not to buckle give out. I tumble gracelessly to the ground and bend from the waist down.

Loads of devastating heaviness press down on my body, demanding more from me than is capable. My shoulders shake from the difficulty of trying to cope, trying to comprehend what has happened.

Nothing makes sense, yet I know Edward has removed himself from my life. He no longer seeks my friendship, and I was nothing but a disappointment to him. He only saw lies when all I knew was freeing instability around him.

What he perceives to be the norm from me tonight is nothing but a well-practiced dance. Something I was carved into being. Hours upon hours went into training _Rosalie Lillian Hale: Socialite extraordinaire_. Though I play her quite well, she isn't how I ever internally aspired to be.

Yes, I am vain, and I know my extensive beauty, but it is never more important to me than children. I would gladly give up every beautiful feature I posses for a child in my arms.

Rose is an unpracticed girl I hardly know. Though she frightens me, I crave her more. She is real and quietly challenges me to be different. Yet Edward thought her to be lies. She is the redeeming truth.

I bring my hands to my face and cover my humiliation. I lean back and allow the wall to support my flailing weight. I don't want to be without him. _Edward_, my mind pleads. _Don't do this. Feel the real me. Know that Rose was never a mirage. She is the hidden part of me that is sincere, unrefined. She calls for you_.

_Please_.

The only thing that greets me is silence. He doesn't magically appear.

I lean against the wall. Nothing seems to faze me. Time has no meaning, and I feel nothing but terribly desolate, _utterly sad_.

What will become of _Rose_ now?

.

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Author's Notes: Wow, loves . . . that was quite heavy (*bites lip nervously*). I know it was short, but it held everything that needed to be said, and then some. Did you expect Edward to be there? Did anyone pick up Carlisle and Esme talking to Edward in the last chapter? He is the shadows Carlisle was talking about.

Anyhow, thanks to the three people who reviewed last chapter. They meant a lot, a lot to me. I can't thank you enough. _Is this story worth continuing? Has the interest in it passed? I don't want to continue if no one is reading_. If you have the time or inclination, please review, loves! It takes only a few seconds. One minute at the most . . . LOL.

I hope all is well with everyone. Much love sent to all.

_Updated: Thursday, 9 August 2012_


	10. Spirits of the Audience

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns everything in the land of Twilight. No copyright infringement is meant.

**Spirits of the Audience**

"_PIANO__, n. A parlor utensil for subduing the impenitent visitor. It is operated by pressing the keys of the machine and the spirits of the audience.__"_

_- Ambrose Bierce_

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Rosalie's POV

Three weeks pass and though I'm marginally better, my heart still feels sad. The first week was utter torture.

After my father found me and all but threatened to kill whoever hurt me, he carried me back to the awaiting car. I barely squeaked out "_it was a situation of my own making_. _No one to blame but me_." He hardly believed me, but I was firm in my story. I held the ultimate blame. How could I fault Edward for thinking I had played him a fool? My split personality proved it perfectly.

Father was very protective of me. When my mother went to make a comment, he shut her down immediately. He didn't even allow her anywhere near me the first week. I wept with thankfulness to him. I couldn't stand her scorn on top of _his_. It would have been enough to render me mad.

As the second week progressed, I started to pull myself together. I had been given enough time to ache, to be helpless. I had only known Edward for two months, _yet it felt infinitely more_, my heart betrayed me. I tried valiantly to ignore my traitorous heart. Most of the time I succeeded, behind the thick fortress of my mask. It kept me the most rational.

But like all parts of us that often fail and were hidden pain seekers, I went to the library. I had to know for a surety he was finished with me. My mind knew the truth, but my heart refused to believe. My eyes had to provide to be the literal witness.

Two hours passed in which I sat and waited impatiently. I shifted continuously. I bit my lip repetitively. I didn't focus on the take home assignments from my classes or any book that lingered on the table where I sat waiting.

My concentration was nonexistent. I wanted for only one thing, one conclusion to be achieved. But like I had expected already, it was an exercise in futility. Edward never showed. And the small part of me that burned bright with hope dimmed even more. Would it eventually burn out completely?

The third week passed without any connection to Edward. I truly started to believe all was lost. I had ruined everything and the small part of me that repeated the mantra, 'don't lose hope', was all but silent.

I was running out of faith and anything good which related to my one-time friend. I didn't want to continue. I didn't want to be without him any longer.

_Couldn't he sense me at all? Couldn't he hear my heart that still called out to him in the late hours of the night? Couldn't he smell the salty tears that wet my pillows and left them ruined_?

_Did he even think of me_?

I had no answers and only long lists of imperfections about myself. But even though I regretted him seeing me as Rosalie Lillian Hale, I couldn't regret the act I put on. It was all I knew and what people expected of me.

I could only give so much, and I never wanted them to see all of me. They didn't truly matter; only those who would eventually give me my little golden-haired little babies mattered. _Once upon a time_ . . . reason reminded me.

On the third Friday of our ruined friendship, I sat once again at the library. I was listless and all but despondent. Time slowly crept by and mocked me maliciously. It made no secret that it rejoiced in my pain.

In my hands was a letter once pristine and now well-worn. Tears had stained the page, but the words were seared into my heart. They were the words that held up my last shreds of blind optimism.

_Rosalie Darling, _

_I pray this missive finds you well. In my mind, I can see many words that want to be written, anything that would give you a bit of happiness. Some may think me simple and childlike, but I only want for happiness, for __everyone__. I know it isn't to be, at least not in this lifetime, but it is a fervent inclination of my heart. And above all, Rose, I hope for your and my families' gratification in this life._

_My eyes haven't seen you in three weeks, but I don't need to see how you may be fairing. I don't mean that in spite or scorn, darling. I mean it in the simple terms of __knowing you__. _

_In the time we have been acquainted, I've come to hold you in high regard, Rose. I don't need to know the intimate intricacies of your heart to see the beauty that lies deeply and abundantly within. Your beautiful eyes tell me the truth so wonderfully. _

_I've seen you at parties and the front you put on for everyone. What some may perceive a poser is wrong. They don't see the work and sadness behind the mask. _

_Don't be alarmed, darling. I don't believe others see it. I can sense it because I put on a similar front. I don't think any less of you. How could I without being a terrible hypocrite?_

_Why am I writing you these declarations, you may be pondering? It's quite simple; I don't want you hurting any longer. Be assured, I don't know the details of your misunderstanding with Edward or the hurtful words he spewed at you, but I do know it occurred. _

_Though I am not talking to him at present, I am terribly disappointed in Edward. The ugliness he said to you was untrue and wholly unprovoked._

_I would tell you more, but it isn't my place, darling. But allow me to share this, Edward suffers from many things. He is quite confident in certain areas of his life, but he is also prone to deep introspection and wrong conclusions. He puts too much on himself and expects perfection. Not in those around him, but in himself. _

_I love Edward dearly, so very deeply, but I'm appallingly disappointed. He should have never put his insecurities on you, darling. I also take part of the blame. _

_I knew Edward was going to attend and I'm sorry for any falsehood I may have led you to believe. What his ultimate purpose was in attending without your knowledge, I'm not quite certain. But if his sullenness and unhappiness are anything to go by, it ended horridly._

_I can see the pain he tries to hide courageously, but little escapes the eyes of those who see him as a son. His pain is my pain, and his happiness is also mine. He may think he suffers in silence, but I feel it with him, regardless if he wants me to or not. It isn't his prerogative to tell me how to feel. _

_But in writing this, I have spoken to him. He refuses to discuss that night, but he does listen. And when he looks at me after I've gone silent (when I'm actually speaking to him), I can see regret in his gaze. I don't know if he realizes, but it's there all the same. _

_I want you to know that truth, darling. I want you to know that what regardless he may have led you to believe, I know he thinks differently. I see the reality in his eyes. I feel it in my soul. I beg of you to believe me. I would never give you false hope. It is too cruel. _

_I ask that you only give him a little more time. Let him stew a little longer in his guilt. Let him feel the remorse in the pain he caused. It was unfair and his hurting introspection is deserved, no matter how much I despise seeing him in pain. _

_If and when you can ever forgive him his shortcomings and terrible mistakes, I beg of you, Rosalie, to please do so. I know it unfair of me to ask such a favor, but I've witnessed your influence in his life and outside of it. _

_I'm confident in writing you make him a better person, darling. He may even have the same effect on you, too. But what does an old meddling hen know? _

_I find I've come to an end of bothering you. Please, take to heart what I've written. If you can look past your hurt, please do so. If not, it's understandable. Only you know how far your heart can extend. _

_Take care of yourself, Rose, darling. And if you and Edward should keep things severed, I still hope to continue our acquaintance. My friendship has no bearing on Edward (the stubborn boy!). _

_Keep up the faith and remember to smile. The world would be quite bereft without it. You are quite glorious, both on the outside and __within__. Never wavier on such a truth. _

_Affectionately yours in friendship,_

_Esme Cullen. _

Her words had been the confidence that led my every foot step to the library. And when the bells in the tower finally rung the six o'clock hour, I knew the hope was lost. Edward had not shown.

It was over, and once again I felt like mourning the closet thing I ever had to a true friendship. Edward had seen me at my lowest, at my most unrefined moment and still wanted to befriend me.

However much I missed and craved him, I wouldn't be defeated. I had been all but unresponsive the first week of our forced separation, and I couldn't survive that way. If there was anything positive mother had instilled in me with her harsh lessons and unfair criticisms, it was my will-power.

I could look at the bleak things in life and make the best of them. It was a direct reflection on my tepid relationship with the Madam. In my own way I loved her. She had given birth to me, _life_. But I didn't love and respect her the way I did my father.

He reared me in love and patience guidance. Lillian was quite the opposite. She demanded much from me and gave little in return. Yes, she was terribly unpleasant as a mother, but she had sharpened my will-power.

When I detested having tea with my "friends", I sucked it up and powered through. When I only wanted to lie in and rest for a night instead of attending another social gathering, I got up, dressed and put on my happiest party face. When I only wanted away from my mother's overbearing presence and harshness, I pretended to love and accept everything she dished out.

I was quite skilled in doing things that didn't always please me, and this situation was no different.

Edward was finished with me, and as much as my heart ached to be near him again, I knew it wasn't to be. He had spoken his peace and meant to stick by his proclamation.

I gathered my belongings, situated my hat and gloves, made sure my bag was comfortable on my shoulder and walked out of the library with all the bravado and grace I could afford.

_It would seem you are good for something, mother, other than telling me how disappointing I can be_.

My mask was in place and bitterness was feeding it a healthy dose of audaciousness.

. . .

I lay in bed and contemplate the last three weeks. The sheets are cool and feel comforting around my aching body. The tears haven't come yet, and I can only hope it holds true. I don't want to weep any longer. I simply want to be numb until I can safely say my infatuation with this virtual stranger is done with.

Its extreme, thinking of Edward as a practical stranger, but the fallacy helps with my healing heart. Even ice queens, such as myself, need time to unwind from it all.

I can't help but see how much Edward has me at a disadvantage. I can't quite decide if it's a good or bad thing. I can wholly decide it's something so very new for me.

Social games, masks and dances are something I'm significantly more comfortable portraying. I know what's expected and how to keep face effortlessly. The entire social arena has been my main stage for years.

And along comes a breathtakingly beautiful man and simply pulls me from center stage, completely unintentional. He causes me to observe things that usually escape my notice. It's nothing he profoundly says, but the way he listens and points out the small intricacies to me.

Edward claims I've caused him to once again notice the little things, but I find it so very difficult to believe. He's entirely insightful without a word ever uttered from me.

.

"_You're wrong, Rose_," he says seriously, turning the light mood into a more earnest one.

I tease him about how I'm really forgettable. When one strips away the hair, fashionable clothes, cultured attitude and artfully applied makeup, there's nothing really profound about me; unlike him. Edward could be wearing a flour sack and still be the refinement of elegance. The attention of every lady would still be drawn to him. Nothing ever needs to be added to him.

"_I'm all about smoke, mirrors and shadows. A magician could learn many tricks from me_." I want to argue, but he holds up his hand gently, giving me a soft, wobbly smile. "_It's true, love_." I melt at his incredibly sweet endearment. I don't even guard my thoughts or expressions as mother taught me.

"_You're beauty personified. Even in what you perceive to be your weak moments, Rose, you're different than any other I've encountered. Since my parents passing, nothing has truly interested me. I go about life, not living but existing. But you . . . you, appear and pull me from the blank aura_ –"

"_Edward, please_," I implore, uncomfortable with his praise. He has me entirely wrong. The side he sees of me is special, someone who materializes only for him. He must realize the difference.

However, he halts me, refuses to let me explain the truth to him. I should fight harder, needing to explain the true Rosalie Lillian Hale, but I find I like being someone different for him. Edward is above the rest and pulls out a side of me that is somewhat worthy of his attention. I fear what he would think of the true me.

.

In remembering the discussion, I find we both hid some part of our true selves. It's like something amazing happens when we're together: all the strife and normal worries of life are stripped away. We are allowed to exist in a world and reality where all that matters is our fragile friendship and the tender sides we cultivate in each other.

Instead of being angry at Edward, I find myself only sad. He found me special enough to come outside of his comfort zone and befriend a person who only knew how to thrive in society. He allows me to be someone else, even if for a few hours a week.

And now that it's lost, I find myself floundering within. Oh, I put on the perfect debutante persona in public, never disgracing my mother, training or family name. But inside . . . inside, I become a little more numb each day.

The girl, who thrived under Edward's attention, slowly makes her way back into the recesses of my subconscious. She doesn't know how to be without him. Or perhaps, I don't want to be her without him.

It only shows how weak and easily mandible I truly am. _Not that I ever thought differently_.

In the end, it doesn't make a bit of difference. Edward refuses to associate with me, and I can scarcely blame him. When one plays a role, and eventually forgets one's act, he or she is bound to be sacked. It was only a matter of time.

_Yes, only a matter of time_, I remind myself tiredly.

. . .

August settles upon me, and as the summer begins to wind down, so does my hope of an eventual reconciliation with Edward. I shouldn't be surprised, he was quite adamant in his refusal in still wanting to be my friend.

_It's easily understandable_.

I lean my head against the window and enjoy the feeling of the cool glass against my forehead. My hat pushes back on my head, but I can't find the will to care. I'm in the car and a little bad decorum never hurt anyone. _If mother heard such statements leave my lips or even filter in my thoughts_ . . .

My fingers are sweating inside my gloved hands, but I ignore the uncomfortable situation. I find I've become quite good at uncomfortable situations. They are my new forte.

A delicate yawn leaves my lips as I raise my head from the window. Classes were indeed long today, and my paper due in English Literature is gruesome.

I take in my surrounds and start to become a little confused. The view outside the car window, though familiar, is entirely wrong. We aren't heading in the direction of home.

"Clar," I question, confusion thick in my voice.

"Yes, Miss. Rose," he answers innocently. I know it's an act. The man can't play coy very well, except around mother. He seems to have such a talent around her which surprises even himself.

"What are you doing?" I look at him from the rearview mirror, watching the candor of his eyes.

"Well, I'd say driving, Miss. Rose, but you never know." I find myself giggling, despite my annoyance with his dreadfully obvious answer.

"Such insight, Clar. Pray tell, how will I ever survive without your pedantic brand of practical knowledge?" I tease.

"I suspect with that sarcasm, Miss. Rose," he volleys, not missing a beat. I do enjoy our wit matches.

I shake my head and try valiantly to hide my wide smile. I fail spectacularly. It's really the first genuine smile I feel in a while. My adoration grows for my big friend.

I maintain my smile, but inquire once more as to where we are heading. He only gives me a sly smile before diverting his attention to the road. The afternoon is quite blustery, and fat heavy cloud drift low in the sky. It looks as if the heavens want to open up and release replenishing rain.

Our location doesn't come to mind, and I know Clar isn't about to tell me. So instead of freaking out as I'd like to, I sit back and simply enjoy the ride. Things lately have lost their frivolity, but I will myself to bask in this simple task.

A song comes to mind as I hum it aloud. Clar gives me a quick look. A seemingly happy smirk turns the corner of his lips. However he doesn't linger for long but I could be mistaken. Whatever he's up to isn't to be known by me until the last moment. _Men and their eternal need for secrecy. Not that women are any better_, I think fairly.

I look at my wristlet and see the time is approaching three in the afternoon. It's an odd time for whatever Clar may have up his sleeve.

I sigh a little, contemplating what could be happening. No idea is forthcoming.

I suddenly jerk forward as the car to an abrupt stop. My breath is a little shallow from the start I receive. Too lost I must have been in my mind to notice we arrive.

Recognition immediately comes to me. I've been here several times, but occasions were entirely different and never during the mid-afternoon hours.

While it is cloudy outside, the building stands proud and stunning. I feel my heart palpitate unsteadily, not knowing what to expect and from the sheer surprise of being here.

Eastman Theatre looms white-grey, almost as grey as the skies. It's odd triangle fan-shaped structure is quite beautiful and unique. It was built as such for the acoustic quality. It's a building unto its own.

As we pull around Gibbs Street and turn onto Main, I see the front of the building. Inscribed into the marble is the sentiment, "For _the Enrichment of Community Life_". And so the building thusly stands for that. Several orchestra productions I've seen inside. The ambiance is elegantly regal.

I've also taken in several films here. The experience is quite superb.

Of course my father is a series ticket holder and we are granted our private entrance to the right side of the theatre. There are indeed wonderful perks to being a Hale. But as I've come to realize in the past three weeks of my separation from Edward, many things fail in comparison to his lack of presence.

_For shame, Rosalie_, I scold myself. _Have some decorum and pride. He wants nothing else to do with you and for good reason. Keep the mask from slipping_.

Clar stops the car at the entrance I normally enter while visiting. My confusion only duplicates by leaps and bounds. I have no idea why I'm here or even the purpose of this queer visit.

I take in my surroundings and notice no one else is entering the grand building. People are milling about, passing on the sidewalk, but no one is entering.

Clarence comes around and opens my door. He extends his hand and helps me out. He is quite the gentlemen, regardless of what he believes. I cherish him all the more for it.

"Thank you," I whisper to him, not sure what else to really say.

"Don't worry, Miss. Rose. It's always a pleasure." I give him a tremulous smile, thinking how blessed I am to have such a stable person in my life, regardless if he is compensated monetarily or not.

"Go inside, Miss, Rose. Someone will be there to greet you." A nervous look filters sneakily onto my face and he must see my apprehension. "You'll be fine ma'am. You trust Old Clar now," he joshes me. I feel my heart lighten yet the tension still raids my stomach.

I shakily let go of his hand and walk the length of the entrance. Before I can even reach for the side door, it opens and reveals an attendant in full uniform. My mask instinctively falls over me. It's a defense mechanism.

_How else am I to react in the face of such uncertainty? Is this some odd test from mother? Has father given me a surprise to cheer me up_? He has also suffered from my terrible withdrawal.

"Ms. Hale," the attendant greets me officially, bending over cordially. I give him my most confident Rosalie Hale smile and watch as his cheek pinken. It's quite adorable.

"I-If you'd follow me, please, mademoiselle." I reward the kind boy with another smile, but hide my giggles. It would be most improper to let them loose.

"Certainly," I answer and watch his prominent Adam's apple bob in his skinny neck. He can't be any older than fifteen.

My feet follow behind his as we enter fully into the main lobby and though the reception area. The grand doors open without even a squeak. It is a testament to how well taken care of the building is.

My eyes take in the beautiful, splendid décor. It is fit for a literal king. As the grand doors part, sweet, almost peaceful music serenades my ears. The playing is exquisitely profound. It's like nothing I've ever heard.

For all I know it could be the fingers of God himself playing the sinfully aching tune.

As I continue down the long left aisle and into the main Mezzanine, I'm all but blinded by the dazzlingly light highlighting the stage. It's all empty except for a grand piano in the center and the master seated at the bench.

I squint several times, trying to become adjusted to the low lights of the theatre, yet the brilliant light giving prominence to the performer on stage. Even the splendid chandelier hanging over me seemed to be outshined by the stage lights, the impossibly haunting music being played and the mysterious beyond-talented maestro outplaying even the instrument itself.

I want to laugh at the silly thought, but can't find the justification. _How is someone able to outplay an instrument, Rosalie_? I question myself teasingly.

Errant, surprising giggles tickle the back of my throat, but I don't let them surface. This impractical and mad behavior is quite unsettling and so unbecoming. _Have I finally cracked under my numbed depression? Not likely_!

The music once again captures me and refuses to let me slip away. Each note sounds as if it's caressed by angel's lips. The highs of the notes threaten to carry me over the impossibly tall precipice, but scarily, I know I'll be fine, for the low haunting notes will surely catch my exhilarating, freeing fall. There is no doubt to cloud my judgment.

Each step seems destined, as if bringing me to something I've had an appointment with since my soul was first created. My heart threatens to spring from my chest as my skin turns into waves of gooseflesh. I continuously shiver from the unknown, yet I feel safe. It's as if I'm placed in an existence where only oxymorons thrive. Or perhaps they're simply half-truths.

And then my rendezvous is upon me. My nerves continue to act intermittently, refusing to release me and bring a calmness I so very desire.

Everything around me seems to be spinning and I can't figure out the root cause. I know the evocative music is a definite factor, but there's more, something just out of reach, only waiting to be discovered.

My eyes become adjusted to the closeness of the stage and I can see the defined outline of the music-god.

He is in perfect synchronization with the instrument. It is finely tuned and sings for him so memorizing. His shoulders are straight, in command of his every move. However, I can see he is so beautifully lost to the swells and combers of the song.

_I've never heard this composition. Is it a creation of his making? Is there anyone truly that talented? How is he not a world famous artist of music . . . or perhaps he is_?

So many notions pass through my mind, one as insane as the next. I don't even remember to put up my mask. For surely this music would tear it to useless and invisible shreds.

I tilt my head to the side while closing my eyes. I feel my body fall so gracelessly into the first available seat. I find my knees will no longer support my weight. I have been truly rendered incapacitated.

I can think of no one who has ever had such a profound, such an overwhelming result over me.

_Except one_, my mind soundly argues. _Edward_ . . .

Tears spring abundantly to my eyes. The sting is immediate. With my lids closed, the prickle feels more acute. I want to open my lids, but I'm afraid. Afraid it will disappear; afraid that Edward will surely not be here; afraid my mind has truly perished and invented such a welcoming mad world; afraid that the music will stop and the only thing left will be cold indifference.

_How is one able to contend with such chaos_?

My worst fears come to realization as the music finally ends. The last note seems to reverberate forever in my ears. So badly I want to see in front of me, take in the eventual sense I'll have to ultimately see, but there is no strength in me. The muscles controlling my face have failed. Could this be classified as a stroke? I feel as if it is. I don't even remember the last time I took in a breath.

So much time passes that I can't even remember how long I've been here, how long I've occupied this chair and how long the last note has rung in my mind.

The pounding of my heart is the only sound I can now hear. The pulsing of my blood through my shocked veins is all I can feel. That is until something lightly grazes my left hand clutching the arm rest.

Tingle after exquisite tingle mixes with my blood and shoots so much awareness through my already overactive body. I start terribly as a gasp rips from the back of my throat.

I sorely want to open my eyes, but simply can't. I'm tremendously scared of what will greet me.

This isn't the Rosalie Hale that entered the theatre. She deserts me for greener pastures. The one left sitting, uncomprehendingly petrified is Rose. I haven't seen her for a while. Except in dreams.

She is still peeking out from my subconscious, weary of what may capture her. And like the rains nourishing the dry, barren grounds, she comes out in her full glory as she finally hears. "Rose," he eloquently says. And nothing of me is the same.

How is it, that one moment, one insignificant word can bring such a torrent of emotions to a system? How is it, that one innocent act of goodwill can change a person so irrevocably?

The answers are not forthcoming. I'm only left to my utter bewilderment.

"Rose," I hear spoken magically again, with such a silky texture.

My eyes refuse to obey me; my body refuses to cooperate with me. But he gently caresses my listless hand and it moves. He tenderly, achingly calls out my name and my eyes open for him.

_It seems almost wholly unfair_.

As soon as my eyes open, the flood of tears which have accumulated fall over. The water is cool to my heated cheeks. It's a decidedly strange feeling. Everything before me is blurry and I make no move to reconcile it. Seeing the world in shadowy colors helps my mind to cope with the vast pressure.

His unbelievably gorgeous visage comes into view, and though I can't make out each definite feature, he is still the most sublimely beautiful person I've encountered.

Copper hair all but shines in the dim light of the chandelier. It is in unspoiled disarray, as if refusing him the ultimate perfection. His gemstone orbs, though slightly guarded, are threatening to break any moment. There is a glassy appearance to them, but no liquid falls. His artfully sculpted lips are pulls tight, but they look no less inviting. His chin is tilted downward and his jaw clinched. The remorse is rolling off him in waves.

I may not be able to read his thoughts, but I can sense his remorse, as if it's leaking into my skin and traveling to my heart.

I lean back into the cushioned chair; his beauty is somewhat blinding, especially with him bent in front of me, as if in supplication.

He stops stroking my left hand and I feel bereft without the attention. I have little time to think about it, for his gaze captures me so fully.

I want to tell him to get up, to not kneel before me. It sends strange emotions to the pit of my stomach. His face becomes hurtful for a moment and I wonder what the cause is. Regardless, it so unfair for him to be kneeing before me; it should be the opposite.

I have yet to say anything to him, but he still seems to know what I'm contemplating. _How is he able to read me so easily? One would think I have no control around him. They'd probably be right_, I admit painfully to myself.

"We are in the correct positions, Rose. It is I who has caused you rehensible pain. Our last meeting, Rose . . ." his voice breaks and many tears flood my eyes. I hate what I've reduced him to.

_So confident . . . collected . . . not fair . . . should always stand so very tall_. Many broken thoughts flood my mind, making little to no sense.

"It's painful to think on. So many cruel things were uttered by me. You didn't deserve the censure."

"Why here," I blurt out, not really understand the abrupt interruption.

He gives me an understanding look before answering my random question.

"I chose this venue for several reasons, Rosalie." My name has never sounded so lovely. _Does he know how it affects me so_?

"Firstly," he starts, distracting me, "I wanted a building that would be worthy of you. I wanted somewhere that would show how much you've come to mean to me as a friend. I could have staged this apology in our first meeting place, but I wanted it to be grand and truly meaningful."

My heart pounds at his eloquent, heartfelt words. I know they aren't just a pretty cover-up.

"Secondly, I wanted to show you aren't the only one whom performs. We may not constantly be on a stage, but that doesn't preclude us from acting the parts which are required of us. This place is quite impressive, but it's not the only place to demand productions, and I understand that."

"Thirdly, love, I wanted to truly impress you. Because I know I failed royally. The things I accused you of were so unfair."

I go to argue with him, but he doesn't allow it. It is evident there is much on his chest, the gaping emotions in his eyes speak so hauntingly of his suffering. I wonder if the same look is plastered onto my own face.

"It's the truth. You're so very like this edifice. Stunningly appealing, yet offering so much emotion to be felt and seen. How can you be blind to it, Rosalie? You think most of your reactions are rehearsed, practiced to perfection, and though some of them may be, not all are. I can see beyond the production. Those angry words I yelled at you were not truth. They were a reflection of what I feel about myself. I took my severe insecurities and made them about you. For that I'm exceedingly, _exceedingly_ sorry. Words mean nothing, only my actions will."

I am taken so very far aback by the heartfelt articulation of his apology. I don't know what to say or even if I can properly move. He renders me immoveable.

"Are you able to forgive me, Rose?" he whispers. He delicately reaches up and wipes the rolling tears from my skin. I wonder if my skin feels extremely hot to him. I lean slightly into his comfort.

I allow myself the luxury of becoming lost in his darkened eyes. They are so very expressive and change with his staggering emotions. My head nods of its own accord, too busy am I trying to see into his heart.

A soft sigh leaves his parted lips and fans over my features. The coolness feels like beautiful relief on my hot, flushed cheeks. I can hear the release of his illogicality regarding me and my reaction. _How could he doubt I'd not forgive him_?

"Even after the show ends and the stage become quiet, the show continues, Rose. It's only not seen by the patrons. The spirits of the audience is too deeply rooted for there to be utter silence."

His words ring strangely true to me. I am speechless at his cadence, the absolute ease in which he can explain something so philosophically, _attentively_.

"You're so very like that. Even when no one is around to experience your splendor, doesn't mean you stop shining. It is impossible." My throat is so tight that I feel if I even attempt to swallow it will shatter. I'm left with so much overflowing.

"E-Edward," I eventually rasp out. "I never meant to lead y-you on. I'm sorry if you t-thought differently," I stutter horrendously. Is he even able to understand my in-articulation?

"I know, Rose. You were correct. It was a misunderstanding on my part. I had just never seen your public side in action. It threw me momentarily. On top of everything else, I was fighting my own demon. It whispers viciously to me, Rose. It tells me regardless of everything I try to become, it is all a mirage." He stops momentarily and evens out his breathing.

"Unlike me, you know your limitations and play to them in public. You're so beautifully refined. Almost untouchable. I couldn't equate that with the person I came to know. It was unfair of me to even try. We all have different facets to our personalities, and I should have given you leeway." I nod, listening to his solid reasons.

"It's no excuse, Rose. I only ask you have patience with me. I've never encountered a friendship such as this," he whispers, gesturing between himself and me in the space that separates us. "It's scary, all but forbidden to me." I don't understand his last explanation, yet I can see it's the truth.

_Strange_ . . .

However, Edward has become my friend again and the patience he asks for will be given in abundance. Rose would not refuse him. Who could refuse him?

"You have it," I answer his amiable request.

We stare at each other for a bit longer, catching up on the time that separated us. Yes, Edward is still new to me, but is still profoundly important to me. One cannot truly understand the heart and what it craves. We can only hope to withstand the barrage of emotions it pelts us with. Dr. Cullen himself probably couldn't even explain the immense mysteries of the heart.

One lone finger trails the length from the corner of my right eye to my chin. His finger is cool, but gives me blessed reprieve.

I give him a tremulous smile and will the tears to stop. I can only imagine how frightful I look. However, I find it doesn't matter. There will be time to freshen up before leaving.

He nods his head in good will before unbending and taking the seat next to me. His knees must feel stiff from kneeling for so long.

A playful smile turns the corner of his lips and I'm confused by its origin. _What has you smirking, Edward_, I ask myself in a moment of welcome lightheartedness. The burden of our separation is no longer threatening to weight me down. Breathing seems almost effortless again.

"Are you accomplished on the piano, Rose?" I giggle for entirely no reason, but he doesn't disparage me. I hear his soft laughs filled in with mine. It's amazing how purging one's deepest poison can give a new lease on life.

"Not really. It's something I've always aspired to learn; along with fixing cars." I bite my lip at the forbidden confession and bask in his mirth.

"I shall teach you then, love. It's the least I could do. I'm told it's what friends do," he explains so seriously, it's beyond adorable.

"Then we shall have to do it," I affirm. "We _are_ friends, right, Edward?" I inquire, truly needing his support and validation. I feel terrible with the uncertainty tingeing my voice. I don't want him feeling guilty.

I turn in my seat at the same time he does. His gaze is piercing, beyond sincere.

"Yes, Rose." And I'm happy once again.

"Did you compose the piece you were playing?" I ask out of curiosity, wanting desperately to change the subject to something lighter. Though the song was anything but, the topic of his potential talent in music-writing has to be.

"That's a secret for another time," he jests. "Suffice it to say, I dabble."

And on our seemingly light conversation continues.

I am drained of heavy emotions. I start the day with much ambiguity, depressed in the knowledge I've lost something inexplicably special. I could survive without Edward, but the prospect is daunting. His is a friendship I had yet to experience and having a slight taste was never enough to satisfy my palate. Now, I have him back and don't have to contemplate the other reality.

Whatever will happen with us in the near future, I know I will forever be happy to have known him. No matter how long our acquaintance may last, or how painful it will seem if ending.

". . . and I only hope you are up for the challenge," he finishes.

I may have become lost in my wondering mind, but I answer him with full assuredly, resoundingly, "_Absolutely_."

_The meaning is even deeper than intended_.

.

* * *

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Author's Notes: Hi, darlings, and welcome to the end of chapter ten. Goodness, I can't believe I already have ten chapters. It was only meant to that long, but now looks as if it will be twice that size.

Anyhow, I wanted to thank you, thank you and thank you some more for all the wonderful reviews and PM's. My eyes truly teared up from the overwhelming response. To those reviews I couldn't respond to, they were so wonderful and endearing! You made my entire week!

I had anticipated this chapter for sooner, but computer problems had a different idea. I tried to edit this, but with the problems, it's making it difficult. Please excuse the mistakes.

Well, I think that's it. Please, loves, if you have the time, could you leave me a review? You've completely spoiled me! I welcome all.

Hope you all had a nice weekend. And for those in the path of Isaac my thoughts and most sincere well wishes are with you! Until next time, much love!

.

(1) Eastman Theatre opened in September of 1922. The Eastman Theatre has the largest marquee in the world—367 ft on Main and Gibbs streets. Carved in granite near the top of the theatre are the words "_For the Enrichment of Community Life_"

The exterior is shaped like a triangle with the stage at the apex. It is said to be acoustically perfect and was designed to provide the same comfort and enjoyment for all patrons regardless of the ticket price. It cost 6.7 million to build in 1922.

Google Image "_Eastman Theatre_" to see the gorgeous pictures. It's well worth it.

_Updated: Monday, 3 September 2012_


	11. I'm Vulnerable

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns everything in the land of Twilight. No copyright infringement is meant.

**I'm Vulnerable**

"_People who know me know I'm strong, but I'm __vulnerable__.__"_

_- Catherine Deneuve _

.

Rosalie's POV – Second Week of August, 1932 – Cullen's Home

A couple of times I have been to the Cullen's home on the out skirts of Rochester. A couple of times I have toured their home. A couple of times I've walked down this very hallway, but never, _never_ have I encountered this room.

The door – like all others in the house – is solid wood. There is nothing cheap or fabricated in this gorgeously decorated home. Esme's style always takes my breath away, _quite like her brother_, I add mentally.

_That is neither here nor there._

I minutely shake my head; however, it doesn't go unnoticed. Of course my overly observant friend picks up on every quirk I fail in hiding. His soft chuckles tingle my skin. I look at him from over my shoulder and send a nasty glare.

His face is impassive, _unimpressed_. I marvel at his ability to stay so very calm and unaffected. _Even when he is most displeased with me_ . . . I quickly shut that rogue thought down. We have apologized to each other and have put it firmly in the past.

"That is impolite, Edward," I try and scold, however, his half-smile is making it awfully difficult. "Why are you laughing at me?" A small pout forms over my lips.

"When is it a crime to laugh, Rosalie? I'd think you appreciate my good humor." A full smile overcomes his lips and I'm truly rendered speechless. I defy anyone who could stand against such a pleasing barrage.

"Come, love," he bades good-humorously. Like the little lost puppy I tend to be around him, I obediently follow. I already melt at hearing his wonderful endearment. I've never heard one as beautiful and agreeable as when he calls me "love".

His hand comes to a rest over the brass door knob, and I stop behind him. I wait for him to speak. I can see the nerves playing on his face, but don't understand what could have him so uneasy.

His head drops and his hair falls rakishly into his eyes. I want to remove it, but know it would be terribly improper. Being with him alone, even though Esme is in the house, is forbidden by my mother. I shrug off the little guilt and smile at my little rebellion.

Edward's head comes back up but is tilted to the side. I wonder how the angle doesn't hurt his neck. He blinks a few times before exhaling lightly. These are little nuances I can't help but notice.

"Beyond this door is very private to me," he finally speaks. The air is heavy with his confession, and the seriousness of his words swirls deeply in his eyes.

Before he can continue, I toss decorum to the side and tentatively place my hand on his arm. I squeeze minutely and ask, "Are you positive you want to show me something so personal, Edward. I wouldn't be offended if you changed your mind. It's understandable. I'd never want to place you in a precarious situation."

He sighs momentarily before speaking.

"Pease, Rose, just don't . . ." he clears his voice before continuing. I'm truly surprised at his behavior. Many things Edward is, but shy isn't one I'd ever list. His innocence captures me and I can't help but think how achingly endearing he is. His sweet vulnerability calls to something deep within me. "Don't laugh," he finishes.

I do want to laugh now, not at his request, but at the thought of me ever laughing at him in such an opened and susceptible state.

My hand that is already on his clothed arm squeezes ever-so-gently. I know it's impossible for me to even hurt him physically, but I still want to touch him gently. I still feel the void of the temporary hiatus our friendship took; the pain I caused him with the many hats I wear.

Even though he thinks I had nothing to apologize for, I know and feel differently. I don't want to be the cause of such unhappiness in him again. I never want to feel that bitter sting of disappointment he had in me again. I know these are ludicrous thoughts, especially after only having his friendship for a couple of months, but I can't deny the deepest recesses of my heart. It's all that keeps me afloat some days.

"Of course not, Edward," I sigh sadly, however, enjoying the sound of his name on my lips. It tingles so pleasantly. "Something so deeply personal to you would never be fodder for me."

He gives me a wobbly smile which dares to melt my heart into a useless puddle.

"I didn't mean to suggest otherwise. I just find myself strangely vulnerable as of now."

I feel incredibly special, that such a person would hold me in his confidence. So many things I am, but someone's confidante I can't claim, at least until now it seems.

"Understandably so," I answer softly. "I may not know what lies beyond this door, Edward," I say removing my hand from his lower arm and placing it on the door in front of us. "But I do know you're placing candid trust in me. I don't take that lightly. I promise never to laugh at such a gift." It is my solemn promise to him.

Regardless if he shows me beyond the door, I will cherish the vulnerability he gave me. It's obvious my companion expertly controls every aspect of his life with firm precision. This is a gift horse very few will ever witness.

I return his shaky smile and drop all pretenses around him, not that there is much to let go. My pride knows little to no restraint where he's concerned. I allow my most brilliant smile to overtake my mouth.

"Shall we press forward, then?" I inquire lightly, teasingly. I want to give him an easy out from the tense moment. We seem to slide between so many emotions and all within the span of minutes.

A lazy grin spreads his lips as resolution filters into his gaze.

"I know, Rose," he answers a previous statement. "Though I appreciate the out, you've made me surer of my decision. I'm just fairly nervous. No one outside my family has ever seen this, yet alone a friend of mine."

I bite my lips as I try to suppress a sickly sweet smile. _He takes me to such heights_.

A slight wink crinkles the corner of his left eye, somehow making my knees want to bend_. Such odd reactions he can cause in me_.

Without so much as another breath between us, Edward's hand twists the brass door knob and my eyes are allowed to see his hallowed sanctuary.

Some would think it's nothing special; others would claim it's a glorified mess (like mother); some would probably not see anything special beyond a room cluttered with paper; oh, but I know differently. This is where his soul resides, where his inner most emotions come out to play. I can all but feel the tangible sentiment reaching out to me.

I feel myself gasp as the errant emotions seem to all but seep into my skin. I don't understand where this irrational response is coming from, only that I feel in my very blood. It sings within me, as if the notes from the stationary piano are playing aloud. But there it sits, motionless, waiting for someone to bring the music to life.

The walls of the room are devoid of wallpaper, yet painted a light grey. The color may seem sterile, but I know it to be different. Many things can lie within the shades of grey. _How can anyone thing grey boring_?

A long leather sofa takes up the far wall. Angled underneath it is a natural white sheepskin rug. It all but invites me to stretch out on it, become lost in its softness. Two antique side tables anchor the sofa. Two tiffany wisteria lamps sit atop the cherry wood. They glass is lovely as it seem to cascade from its tree-like stand. My fingers itch to touch them.

Long, ivory silk curtains hang from the large bay window. I can see the surrounding copse of trees framing the property. However, the object which grabs the majority of my attention is the baby grand piano. Even with those who have substantial pecuniary funds don't own such an exquisite instrument.

The blackness of the instrument seems to shine in the grey walls of the room. It pops more than anything else in the room, even more-so than the delicate tiffany lamps. The lid of the piano is opened, and the strings gleam, as if asking, "aren't I beautiful?" I so want to answer with a resounding yes.

I sweep the inane thoughts from my head and bite my lip before blurting out an answer to an unspoken, crazy question.

Around the piano, on top of the padded bench, on the floor to the right and left of the instrument are sheets upon sheets of papers. From my position just inside the room, I can see the many notes written in dark ink. Some of the pages look older and more worn. Others look crisp and fresh as if he just finished this morning.

I can feel my heart wanting to hum the tunes out loud as I stare at each sheet music. I can feel my lips tingle with what will, undoubtedly, be sensational, poignant tunes. Because anything _he_ touches turns to clichéd gold. I wonder if he posses the _Midas touch_.

"Goodness, Edward," I hear myself exclaiming jovially, almost reverently, "this is incredible." I breathe loudly. The oxygen in my lungs seems to want to escape me. "I feel . . ." there are no words to fill in the blank.

To many this room may represent nothing, but it was the soul of Edward. _His very core. Something so profoundly private_, I think delicately.

"I know," he whispers, as if to preserve the soft spirit of the room. His hand is placed over his heart, and I know he does understand.

Something significant passes between us. His eyes turn dark, as if what's captured him wants to leak from them. I can only imagine what mine must reflect. The intensity wants to swallow me whole, but Edward's gaze keeps me grounded, a firm foundation connected to solely him.

"Would you care to hear something?" he gently murmurs. All I can do is nod my head. I'm too far captured in what is happening around me. I can't explain nor comprehend what is happening to me, but I know I don't want to be saved. I want to feel swept away. I want this tidal wave to carry me far and wide, no matter how dangerous or life-provoking it may seem.

Edward silently passes by me and I feel the thrills of awareness from just his nearness. No part of him touches me, but it seems as if every part is caressing me.

The seat from his desk is situated next to the piano. He gestures for me to sit as his hands reside on the back of the chair. I shakily make my way over and try terribly not to be ungraceful. I fluff my skirt out around me, occupying my hands with a senseless task. I'm afraid they will do something culpable and reach out towards him.

His deep breath passes over my bare neck and hair as he leans over and whispers, "Relax, Rose."

I want to laugh at his silly, lazy command.

I precariously turn my head to the side and look at him from over my shoulder.

"You precede me, Edward," I challenge.

His deep laughter is the balm I need to calm my rushing nerves. We are on even ground here, the banter we share.

"Touché, love." His index finger passes over my chin in humor while pulling a brilliant grin from my soul. I adore this side of him.

I turn back around as he seats himself at his piano. He stretches his fingers before placing them in the correct position. I can see that strange vulnerability overcome him momentarily. _How can he ever doubt I'd not admire anything he's created_? I ask myself confusedly. _He is my friend . . . true friend. I could never think to hurt him intentionally_.

Before I can voice my concerns, he shoots me another one of his sly winks. His face then morphs into what I can only describe as intensely hallow. His fingers start to work over the ivory and black keys.

My heart doesn't even ask for permission as it starts to soar with each notes he plays, each note that touches the inner most chamber of my heart.

It's as if the music rules over him, posses him fully and all he can do is play. If he is to ever be whole again, the music must escape from his fingers. He brings an entirely different meaning to the word 'play'. My beating heart begs to leap from my chest as it pounds beneath my ribs. Tears carelessly fill my eyes before gently falling over my lashes.

No word in my extensive vocabulary can describe what I'm witnessing. It's as if his soul is bare, seeping from his body and begging me to understand what it wants from the music he plays. My hands clinch ever-so-tightly around the chair frame. It's the only thing keeping me seated and not wanting to devour what his soul is offering.

I know I become somewhat insane as I listen to his astonishing creation. I've always had an infinity for music, but what Edward creates seems far beyond that. I can't understand, even attempt to wrap my head around the extent, the totality of his gift. _Could God, himself comprehend it_? I think blasphemously. _Probably most profoundly of all. And I envy him that_.

The music slowly ends and the sweet swelling is still serenading my ears, my spirit. I can feel as each individual tear falls onto my ungloved hand. They each tell of the overwhelming emotions that surge through my quivering body.

His head bows for a moment, as if trying to bring himself back to center. I don't even need to see his face to know his emotions must be surging.

"May I ask you a question, Edward?" I finally ask after an appropriate amount of time. I tilt my head to the side in fascination. Everything about this individual has me enraptured.

_Do I have that same sort of affect on you, my friend_?

"Of course, love."

"I don't mean to offend in any way, but I wonder as to why you study Medicine at university? You posses a gift in music to the likes of which I've never encountered. Do you ever feel as if you're depriving the world of your excellences?" I sound more astounded than exasperated. _Good, I'm not offending him too much_, I console myself.

"No offense is taken, Rose. And I thank you for the compliment. But no, I shan't want to play for everyone. It isn't my style, and attention wouldn't be conducive to the lifestyle I wish for."

Once again, his answer sparks so many new ones inside my head. I bite my bottom lip, desperately trying to control myself.

"I would only wish to share my music with those I feel the closest to." My teeth stop nibbling on my bottom lip as it drops slightly. "It's entirely private and I would feel too exposed. It's nothing I would ever endure. I'm far too solitary."

A sly, yet wholly endearing smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. He is so blindingly handsome at times, it almost impossible to form coherent thought. However, my well-practiced side perseveres, but just slightly.

"You would consider me someone close?" Can he hear the uncertainty and hesitation in my tone? This ineffectual behavior is something difficult for me to stomach.

"Yes, love," he says simply, sweetly. I find myself waffling, feeling as if I'm on a Ferris wheel.

"We're fine, right, Edward," I blurt out softly, finally finding the strength to raise my greatest fear in regards to him.

Funny, isn't it, how one can know a person for such a short time, yet live in fear of losing that individual from one's life. How can such a fear even exist in a short amount of time? I find nothing in my body seems to have the missing answer I require.

"I mean, with everything having to do with our _fight_?" I end on a whisper.

He's taken a little bit aback; I can see some bewilderment touching his dark eyes.

_Why did you have to ask such an idiotic question, Rosalie_? I scold myself. _Everything was fine_. But I know the answer without having to speak it or think it: I've always been a curious child. Being seventeen hasn't really changed the propensity.

I remember the play I read from Eugene O'Neill in which he wrote: "_Curiosity killed a cat! Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies_." It is wisdom to heed cautiously. But such caution doesn't seem to be _Rose's_ Modus Operandi.

I want to raise my mask, to bring some sense of normality to my rising fear, but I refrain. I don't want to be that girl around Edward. I don't want to hide behind a mask of coy gentility, perfect mannerisms and somewhat cold indifferences to others.

I take in several deep breaths and make myself look up at my silent friend. I'm scared of what I might see. I don't want to anger him and I don't want to be without him. No matter how fanatical it sounds.

My eyes find the courage to lift up to his. Peculiar regard is all I think to describe his look, and perhaps a bit of _fascination_. But that has to be my own wild imagination. _Surely_.

The soles of his leather shoes sound on the wooden floor as he walks closer to me. I want to shrink back, not out of fear of his personality, but fear of myself breaking.

His knees land on the floor before me and we are now at eye level. Only once had I ever imagined a situation like this, and the image before me is so far beyond what I had envisioned. There is no blissful happiness; there is no sparkling diamond ring that tries to compete with me in beauty, there is no courtship or even romantic relationship. The only thing before me is my _friend_, Edward, and his undeniably gorgeous face.

Sometimes I feel myself wanting to drown in his imperial topaz eyes, and this is no exception. Those eyes call to me like none other before.

"Rose," he speaks softly, breaking me from the fast pace of my thoughts.

"Yes?" I question stupidly, not knowing how else to respond. I wonder if he can see the vein throbbing in my neck or on the inside of my wrist. I wonder if he can see the wildness in my eyes that I feel in my head. I wonder – most of all – how I get myself into these uncertain situations with Mr. Cullen.

"Again, I can only apologize."

"I didn't mean to insinuate –"I rebut. However, he politely cuts me off.

"I know. It is of my own will that I want to apologize again, Rosalie." My name falling from his lips sounds completely different than when mother says it. His tone is infinitely more caring, which is quite ironic. "I was altogether out of line. I had this undistorted picture of you in my mind's eye, and thus unfairly classified you. I should know more than others how wrong it is."

"Edward," I go to reassure, "you put too much pressure on yourself. We're all guilty of classifying someone unfairly. I can't pretend the Rosalie you saw at the benefit wasn't me, because it was. It's understandable you wouldn't like her after seeing such a different side to me. But it's how I was raised. It's no excuse or justification, simply me explaining to you how I'm able to cope in tedious functions. There's only so much even I can take, regardless of what my mother may think."

"Be that as it may, but I've always had a greater insight into others. It's a gift which has been both a blessing and an enormous curse."

Some would think Edward boasting or tell some over-the-top falsehood, but the honesty in his eyes is quite startling.

"It's as if I can see a person and have amazing insight into what they're thinking. It's been that way since I was a small boy. This, whatever you'd like to call it, has made me somewhat conceited, and rightly so in many instances. However, it's not always the case. Especially in regards to you, Rose. I was wrong, and I hope you know of my sincerity." His index finger once again swipes gently over my chin. The coolness of his skin is reassuring, _simply right_!

I shiver, not from the coolness, but from the weight of the situation. His eyes tell such a compelling and forthright story. I can't think of what I may have done to deserve such a friend, but I grab onto the gift with a strength I don't even realize I posses. I feel myself fall even more for him and the different sides of life he brings into my one-dimensional world.

Edward sees many facets in me, and instead of just seeing the sparkle which reflects off the facets, he sees beyond the reflection and into the glass. I'm not just another bauble to add to someone's extensive collection.

I raise my own hand precariously, trepidation lingering in every cell within my arm, and barely touch the pale contours of his left cheek. A wondrous coolness meets my touch and I can't help but think how incredibly handsome he is. How could such brilliance be born? Even I can't measure up to his regality. I fall so short of the mark.

But beyond the exterior lies a confidence, a deep wisdom, a convoluted and complex understanding of the world we reside in. I wonder what things he has seen and what hardships he had to endure to receive such an intricate intelligence. Some would envy his intelligence, and though I do, I feel something sadly profound on how he had to obtain it. There is a darker knowledge of the world I could scarcely understand in my very sheltered life.

As I lightly feel the underside of his left eye, I marvel at his unblemished skin, the unmarked smoothness and the glorious perfection of everything my gaze beholds. _Simply astounding_! No other words come to me.

His eyes close briefly. I can only hope he doesn't think me too forward or familiar with touching a man in quite an intimate way. I may be confident around those of the opposite gender, but it only goes so far. My knowledge is only theoretical, not practical.

I remove my hand and bite my lip. This is the closest I've ever come to intimately touching a man who isn't a member of my family. It leaves me short of breath and my skin flush. I can only imagine how silly I must look, so in awe of him. _Does he think my interest only superficial, skin deep_?

When I feel his skin, I can feel not only the hard beauty, but also the inner strength and radiance that shines from within. It's simply astounding . . . _my friend_. I smile endearingly.

Not much space separates us. He is still kneeling before me and looking incredibly adorable. His countenance seems to invite so much, and so unwillingly.

"I think no such thing, Rose. I can _see it_, remember?" he points out humorously. I adore the mischievousness twinkling in his orbs.

"You're incorrigible," I tease, a blush staining my cheeks. I dislike being read so easily. It's dreadfully embarrassing.

"Many things I may be, Rosalie, incorrigible is definitely at the top," he quips and I giggle helplessly. "Not to mention frightfully handsome, physically appealing, wholly smart and all around enviable . . ." My mouth drops open at his conceit. He rewards me with the sound of his very _appealing_ laughter.

I hide my smile as I gently push his shoulder away from me. He graciously falls over and pretends to be mortally wounded.

An enchanted smile takes over my entire face. Here is my very serious, rich, distinguished and gloriously beautiful friend hunched on the floor pretending to be hurt. Edward may be many things, but he can also show some levity. Those who observe him in public would be beyond astonished. But they are only allowed a small piece of him.

I'm just terribly grateful and over-the-moon happy he considers me a friend, allowing me to see his playfulness. I can imagine it doesn't happen often.

I throw my head back and allow a definite unladylike laugh leave my body. _When in Rome_, I think and join in his mirth.

. .

The way home seems almost lonely. Silence reins in the car as darkness starts to descend. Clar keeps both eyes on the road and hands firmly around the steering wheel. I know he takes the condition of my safety earnestly. It's something I cherish deeply in him.

I sigh as the outskirts of Rochester pass us by. Farm land dominates the surrounding area. And though my "friends" complain about the filthiness of farming and how rudimentary it is, I find a simply happiness to it. Without their hard work and determination to produce such substance, how would they ever eat at another endless party?

I know I shouldn't be looking down my nose at the parties; _mother would have my sitting in front of the mirror for hours if she knew my thoughts_.

I can't help but think how they don't find any happiness in the simplicity of the land, yet find plenty in the backbiting and social politics of the elite.

I enjoy beautiful dresses, bubbling champagne, twinkling lights that play wonderfully off silk, compliments on my beauty which takes me hours to practice and many other things about high society. These things, sadly, validate the existence I was born into. But even with the good comes the bad, and the fakeness of friends can be quite stifling at times.

I don't disparage my place in society. I cringe sadly, thinking about being born to a pauper, or into a Hooverville. The prospect scares me greatly. I think of my beauty being wasted in such squalor.

What mother has taught me is the truth, to an extent. Beauty is my gift. I'm not really talented at many things, but being beautiful and knowing how to stand out is one thing I do know and succeed at.

Years of practice and hardship have gone into creating my mask and appearance. Some may think me vain, privileged and spoilt with nothing but fluffy bits floating in my gorgeous head, and they are correct to an extent.

But . . . but, those lessons have come at a price. I often wear my mask with a badge of honor and pride. Having Lillian Hale as a mother and instructor isn't always easy, and hardly advisable.

I've endured my mother and with that my conceit knows no bounds. I am a product of my mother's tutelage, her greatest creation.

Even with all the advantages, I find myself also becoming disenfranchised with all the glitz and fake companionship. I guess Edward would be the ultimate catalyst to have sparked my dislike. There were cracks in the foundation before he came along, but his true camaraderie fills in the gaps and causes them to expand even wider.

I truly fear mother's reaction to my questioning. I've held the mask in place firmly when she's around, but eventually she'll notice the tiny fall. She always notices the most minute slips if studying me too closely.

Whatever her backlash on me may be will ultimately be worth it, because I have determined Edward to be worth the sacrifice and punishment.

My afternoon with him was beyond delightful. His levity and playfulness are terribly appealing. Even I can't fight the pull of his charm. _Not that I try valiantly_.

The merrily buoyant Edward, versus the one I witness in public, is so different. He isn't like me, in that he preens under the vast amounts of unwanted attention being offered him, but he is regal and authoritative without meaning to be. _He simply is_.

I wonder if he even realizes the dichotomy he poses. No one can deny how intelligent he is. One can learn much from books and such, yet Edward's wisdom seems to be twofold: he has an innate knowledge built into every fiber of his being. When he speaks, his words and speech are so refined, naturally gifted. And his eyes, posture, and elegance give away his other wisdom, that of life lived.

Edward may only be nineteen, but seems so much older; not in the way he looks, but how he carries himself and acts. He is by no means a self-righteous snob; that's my role to play, but he tends to come off as standoffish. His presence is intimidating, yet so poised in his very skin.

When he first spoke to me of being uncertain about several aspects of his life, I was genuinely surprised. He doesn't seem to have an unconfident bone in his body, yet he admitted otherwise to me. I was firm in the knowledge that just because one don't behold something with one's own eyes, doesn't mean it doesn't exist. Only Edward knew himself so intimately.

_Who am I to refute him_?

I watch other people watching him, especially when he walks me to my waiting car after our time in the library. I can see the envy and intimidation lingering on their faces, in their body presentation. Edward is one to be noticed, no matter how much he may want to object.

However, very few select get to witness the cheerfully vivacious Edward: the playfully and surprisingly mischievous Edward. The way he laughed, teased and generally tried to goad me this afternoon was incredibly tantalizing.

He left me simply enchanted beyond speech.

The confidence still coated every part of him; while he let his playful side rein. Yet the stiffness retreated, only to be replaced by this unpredictably adorable boy.

His friendship is cherished beyond recognition.

The rural landscape becomes more populated as we make our way back into greater Rochester. The Cullen's home has such charm and peace radiating from it, nestled in the trees around the property. It's easy to see why they'd crave such space and anonymity. Instead of being sad and disjointed at leaving their serenity, I find myself humming happily.

Though I now must endure mother and the beyond heavy burden she places on my already sagging shoulders, I truly have a friend. One who sees beyond all my façades and performances, and still wants to be wholly associated with me.

_Blessed_, I think, _for one happy, pure unblemished, eternal moment_.

.

* * *

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Author's Notes: Hello, lovelies. So . . . what did you think of the chapter? I know to some it may feel like a filler, and it probably is. But, I hope it wasn't too boring for you. There is a reason for this and its development. This is their relationship strengthening and transitioning. Are you able to see it? _Hmm_ . . .

Don't worry too much, this is going somewhere, but for now I say enjoy the softness of their friendship, the intenseness it's gaining.

To all who reviewed last chapter (all five of you), thanks so much. I hope you were able to receive my replies. To those who reviewed anonymously, thank you, too. I appreciate the effort so very much!

Anyhow, I hope all is well with everyone! Be safe out there. Much _love _to all!

.

(1) Eugene O'Neil (1888-1953) is an American playwright whose plays were among the first to be used in everyday language.

"_Curiosity killed a cat! Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies." _ Is an adage attributed to the play, "Diff'rent" written by O'Neil in 1920.

(2) If you like to see an image of the Tiffany lamps in Edward's music room, Google-Image the phrase "Original Tiffany Wisteria Lamp". They are quite stunning and worth the time to look at them.

_Updated: Sunday, 16 September 2012._


	12. Let's Pretend

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns everything in the land of Twilight. No copyright infringement is meant.

**Let's Pretend**

_It started off so swell,  
>This "let's pretend."<br>It all began so well,  
>But what an end!<em>

_- George Gershwin ("But Not for Me")_

.

Third Week of August, 1932

I'm not the biggest enthusiast of summer. Of course winters can quite brutal and frigid, but it doesn't cause me to perspire copiously. I want to cringe feeling the little droplets of sweat fall down my back. I fear to even raise my arms; the sweat may have coated all the layers of my day outfit.

But it isn't the time for such thoughts. It's a time for happiness and some levity in our difficult times. Though it's quite fun and entertaining, I'm somewhat put off. I feel as if I'm in a small tin can, squished between too many people with no way of escaping.

This event is different from parties I attend. Our industrial city is celebrating its ninety-eighth year since being established. Our fair city is quite big, totaling around three hundred and fifty thousand. We are proud to boast our city as the twenty-second largest in these the United States. _Of course anyone could quote these facts_, I think playfully. _It was all written in the Democrat and Chronicle morning paper_.

Shouts of enjoyment sound all around me as another float passes by. They really are utterly beautiful in their detail and craftsmanship. It never fails to impress how talented some people are. Of course I don't let the emotions show on my face. I'm still in public and around many not of my social class. _One must maintain one's composure_.

It also doesn't escape my notice that I get many stares, along with the floats. One might think I was created for the parade, too. As Miss Rochester passes by on her throne float, I do allow a little secret smile to pass my lips.

I was in contention for the spot, but father didn't allow it. He adamantly refused all of mother's pleadings and those also of his acquaintances. _Something I'm more than grateful for_. I may relish the attention and shine in a spotlight, but the pressure of thousands of people watching me is beyond daunting. It's not something I'd ever seek and would take me so far beyond the realms of my intended life's goal.

The spectators around me look at the reigning Miss. Rochester and then back at me. It's clear by the confusion on their faces they think someone else should have been crowned. I let the adoration pass through me; it helps to keep my mask strengthened. I tell myself that no one can compete with my beauty, but I also allow myself to look somewhat approachable.

"_A wife of someone in high standing in society should be regal but approachable, Rosalie_," Mother coached me. I think she needed to adhere to her own advice about being approachable, but kept my mouth respectfully closed. "_It's important to remain somewhat aloof, but still demure, a little humble. It only furthers one place in society._" I nodded my head and committed her comments to memory. She would test me at some point in the future.

On and on the parade continues. Little children squeal in delight as little candies are thrown gently to them. Their true innocence is the only thing that brings a sincere, unpracticed smile to my face (_except Edward_, my traitorous heart beats). I can't resist, anyhow. I'm too weak when it comes to children. It doesn't matter what social class they represent to me. My heart always bleeds for little wee ones.

I can hear mother berating me for allowing such a weakness to show, but the reprimand floats unhappily to the back of my mind. Children should always be shown kindness and not detachment. _In my humble, unimportant opinion at least_ . . .

One little boy captures my immediate attention. The most beautiful diamond could be shown to me, but it would have no greater hold over me like children. They are the true priceless heirlooms.

Sweet, happy shouts come from his smiling lips. His little gentlemen's suit is beyond endearing as he hops up and down. His puffy little cheeks are flushed pink from his excitement at having caught a flying candy. His father ruffles his sandy locks in love and parental patience. It warms my heart considerably more than the sun.

The little, cheerful boy reminds me of my brothers. I can feel my heart squeeze at thinking of them. Charles is fourteen and three years my junior. Benjamin (or Ben as I refer to him as) is ten and the apple of my eye. Yes, I love both of my brothers, but there is something about being the littlest child of one's family unit. Ben resembles me the most and adores his older sister. He is always stuck to my side when visiting.

Though they are staying in New York City for the summer and not coming home, we shall be visiting them at the end of the summer. I am excited to see their smiling faces and to have Ben shadowing my every step.

Thirty more minutes pass before the end of the parade comes. I thank the heavens above that it's almost finished. Though a cheerful distraction, I'm more than ready to leave.

After the parade is a lunch-in we must attend. It's to be held at the Oaks Hill Country Club and among members of our own distinction. It breaks my heart a little, having to part from all the happy children, but it will be nice having some space to breath. My lungs feel as if I'm breathing in stale, reused oxygen. It's a most unwelcome, disgusting feeling.

I follow father as he leads us through the dwindling crowd. Clarence brings up my back. Mother refused to attend the parade with us. "_Too common_."

Once we find our car, we're off to the club. Mother is already there, probably with her women's society. They are dreadfully boring and stuffy. I wonder if they were stuffed by the leading taxidermist in the field. _Only the best will do, after all_.

It's also scary to think I can be like them when older. However I may age and grow, my main attention will always be given to my children and not some faux cause that barely registers in my heart.

"Are you well, Rose," my father's sweet, concerned voice enters my personal space.

I look over to him, after clearing my head, and give him a reassuring smile.

"Quite well, daddy. Just taking in the celebratory and festive atmosphere. Why?" I inquire politely.

"You just seemed thousands of miles from me. Can't have my baby girl rushing off, can I? What shall I ever do with only your mother for company?" he jokes. I always feel my love for him increase when we are alone. He gives me a part of himself hardly anyone else is akin to.

"Why, talk of the latest fashions and drink the best imported tea from England. Have you not enjoyed my Vogue subscription I got you for Christmas, father?" I bat my eyelashes prettily. I may be joshing with him, but the subscription is true. I thought it would give him something in common with his wife. It was also a fun gag gift.

"You're lucky to have my love, daughter. I may have to disown you at some point." He eyes me in mock-disapproval.

"Father!" I exclaim scandalized. My hand falls over my heart. "Wash your mouth out. How would you ever survive without your favorite child?" He pretends to think over my question.

"What does Mr. Charles have to do with anything, Miss. Rose," my traitor of a friend claims. I look away from my father's laughing form to the front seat.

"Well played, Clar. But I shall remember this duplicity. And to think I loved you most of all." I raise my nose in the air and cross my arms over my chest. I am the perfect image of affronted.

Gay Laughter fills our car, and I'm only happy to be a part of the levity. If mother were present the air would be thin and frigid. I look to my father and feel my respect for him rise even more than possible.

He winks at his baby girl before placing his arm over my shoulders. I lean into his body and soak in his love. I'm beyond a lucky girl to have such an amazing father and individual time with him. My father is always beyond busy with his numerous obligations.

Though I bask in my father's closeness, I start to prepare myself for an afternoon of fake civility, constant stares, demure decorum and refined gentility. It's all in the work and description of a well-bred, high society lady.

I start to change my mindscape and can literally feel the change start to take place within me. I want to rebel from the oncoming change, but can't. I refuse to embarrass my father in any way. Many of his colleagues will be in attendance. The only redeeming quality to this afternoon will be Esme's company.

I stare out the car window and into the cloudy afternoon. I wonder fleetingly what it would be like to be a cloud: fluffy, soft, gliding, temperamental, free. _Attributes I shan't accomplish this afternoon_.

_I'm the most beautiful of all_, I think routinely. _Nothing and no one can compete with my beauty_. I momentarily look to the front and can see Clar's weary eyes watching me. The transformation is complete. And even he knows it . . .

Don't worry for me, friend.

. .

Oaks Hill Country Club

The hardship of the afternoon is even more gruel-some and tiring than I had ever anticipated. My mask threatened to fall numerous times as I peeked him looking at me. It's wholly unfair and heart-aching. I don't want him to see me like this. Problems have already arisen because of my public persona.

Though we are more stable after our benefit incident, a small insecurity lingers within my heart. I try to keep it hidden from him. Sometimes, when he's walking me to my awaiting car after the library, or when we enjoy the shade of a tree out on the green of campus, I know he's studying me, regretting our fallout. He pretends to read, but I can somehow feel the pain from his actions.

I hold nothing against him and understood his reaction. I am an entirely different girl around him. But I like to believe he has forgiven himself, as I have. What reason is there to seek someone's forgiveness of the wronged if one can't accept it and forgive one's self? It makes little to no sense to me.

A discreet breath leaves my lungs for what seems like the hundredth time. This afternoon and evening seems the longest of my young life.

_Talk, Greet guests, smile, bat eyelashes, appear refined yet somewhat attainable, study every movement in the room, be aware of the most available gentlemen, keep my tight façade in place, don't falter, be aware mother is watching my every failure. Repeat again. These are the repetitive steps which guide my every action_.

Many times I have wished for Edward to be present at our social functions, but now I am beyond grateful he isn't. I knew it would be challenging to have him near me and sustain my persona, but this seems beyond the realm of possible.

I can't even begin to understand why he even chose to attend. It's truly the first public function we've attended since becoming friend, and I hope it to be the last. I've never been happier about his reclusive mannerisms than I am as of now. This seems like the cruelest form of torture created just for me.

Several times my mask has threatened to fall as I watched yet another "lady" go to him and converse. Never have I wanted to hurt someone so badly. Truly, I dislike this violent side of me, yet it didn't want to be relinquished. It clung tighter to me than one of Mildred's moles clinging to her neck.

As much as I despise these obvious girls, I can't fault them. It would make me the biggest hypocrite east of the Genesee River. No matter what Edward does, or how he politely tries to discourage attention, it comes unwillingly. He has that je ne sais quoi. I'm no stranger to his magnetic north. I'm pulled to him like everyone else.

At times, I catch him staring at me, and sometimes I wonder if I see a fleeting glance of disapproval from him. When I go to look again, there is nothing but polite disinterest, telling me I've contrived it only in my imagination. It's when my insecurity about him comes out the most. I don't want him to ever feel disgusted with me again as he did several weeks ago. I don't imagine I could survive that fallout again.

When I feel myself slipping, from either his attention on me or my unwarranted jealously, I turn from him and focus on the current gentleman trying to vie for my attention. I don't do it out of retaliation, but out of necessity. Mother is staring at me, evaluating my performance. Even Edward's friendship couldn't get me out of punishment from her if I were to disgrace our family name and make an unpleasant scene.

I feel somewhat dirty, resorting to such low tactics, but I can't think of another alternative. I only want the shelter of my room or the comfort of Edward's undivided and limitless attention. But no matter, I don't let these rogue emotions show. I am too well-versed in my public persona. My heart can only hope Edward is able to tell the difference from the little nuances I give him.

"And to think a lady of society would sneak out to go to such an establishment," I hear spoken disapprovingly from some girls near me. I turn around and study them. I take a delicate drink of my tea and wash out the taste of cucumber sandwiches from my mouth. _Never my forte_.

"Who would even want to dance to such unrefined music," she continues to sneer, bringing me back from errant thoughts.

Someone really should inform her sneering makes her look unbecoming.

"I quite concur, dear," her partner in crime eagerly agrees. I wonder if they know their longing for such unencumbered frivolity is showing through. "I wouldn't be caught at such a seedy club. What is so attractive about big band music, anyhow? Mother claims the waltz is all a lady needs." I want to scoff at their fake bravado. If acceptable, they would be the first in line to go dance at a "seedy club".

I can't be one to look down on them too much. I'm also restricted from such places. Mother would truly die of fright and embarrassment if found there. _Perhaps that wouldn't be such a bad thing_, I think uncharitably. I go a little closer, making sure to stay subtle and interested in my surroundings. My curiosity is beyond peaked.

"How was she able to even attend?" the sheep of the duo asks.

The leader answers, "She snuck out while her parents were in New York City attending some gala. To think, not only did she disobey her parents, but she danced with such common men. Disgusting. Her maid had no idea," she titters meanly. "Such incompetence. Father is right in saying good help is difficult to come by."

I strongly disagree. One only needed to look beyond one's bubble to see the thousands of people in dire straight who would have gladly taken the job and fulfilled it correctly.

"Jazzy Nights is the name of the club, supposedly staying open to all hours of the night. Isn't it just sinful?" The sheep immediately agrees. For someone having no interest in ever attending such a swinging club, she seems to know much about it. But unlike her, I now plan to attend. _Oh yes, it would be quite the rebellion_, I think happily, deliciously.

_Jazzy nights . . . it sure does have a Lindy Hop name to it_ . . . I can feel my rebellious juices simmering.

And so I spend the rest of the evening planning, among looking fleetingly at Edward – if I'm honest with myself.

The arduous and highly taxing evening is finally over with and I soon will be free of his delightfully oppressive person. As I say goodbye to Hazel and make my way towards my gesturing father, someone lightly bumps into me.

"I'm terribly sorry," I quickly apologize. I can't have myself coming off as impolite. My father's colleagues would think he raised an improper daughter.

"Not at all, love," I hear whispered too closely to my ear. Without thought and permission my heart starts to beat at a pace that may expel it from my chest. I briefly fear for my life, but it hurriedly passes as Edward's hand closes over mine.

Something is gently placed in my fisted hand and given a light squeeze before released.

"Accidents happen, Miss. Hale," he informs me politely, yet there seems to be something else tingeing his tone. _I must be daydreaming_ . . . (_or feeling guilty_)_,_ I inform myself self-righteously.

He bows over my hand before leaving me as quickly as he came. I don't even have a chance to say anything to him. I want to cry at the thought. _My only chance to say something to him. Oh well_, I still have something valuable in my hand, simply because he gave it to me.

Once I make my way over to my parents and we give our goodbyes, we are finally on our way home. Who knew celebrating our towns' illustrious history could be so tiring, informative, drama-filled and all around onerous.

When I'm in bed for the night and all tucked in, I finally open the fragile and expensive stationary Edward gave me earlier. I stop at the line of smelling it. That would be borderline creepy. I do however trace the lines of his beautiful writing with my finger. I am hopeless and asinine.

My heart ignores my cynical mind as I take in his note once more.

_Rosalie –_

_You look beyond description, love, among us common people. Hold your head up high, love. You give the spectators something beautiful in a world gone mad with depression and sadness. Beauty may be God-given, Rosalie, but you embrace it and give it to others around you; unwittingly. Don't be embarrassed about your "talent". More beauty is always needed and required in our darkened world. You surpass all. - __E_

Tears threaten to overtake my eyes, but I refuse to stain the letter with their uselessness. His unadulterated and unfiltered description is memorizing. My heart beats so much for him right now. _How am I ever to get to sleep_, I think happily.

Over the course of the afternoon I had worried about his disapproval, of him seeing me in such a tainted light again. His note, however, dispels my worries. How could it not have the power to do so? I defied any girl to try and withstand.

The soft touch of his cool hand stills lingers on my skin. It tells me he was truly near me and gave me this note. I lift my head to the night-darkened sky and whisper, "Thank you, Edward."

I secretly bite my lip, trying to suppress the smile which threatens to take over completely. He is so dangerous to my well-being and well-practiced lifestyle. And yet, I can't find any anger to express towards him. I'm only filled with a deep joy.

A deeply, clinging, unrelenting joy!

. . .

End of August, 1932

I cringe as my window frame squeaks lightly. I bite my lip hard, willing it to somehow not awake my mother. Somehow and so fortuitously, father is called away on a business meeting. It is the break I have been waiting for – which seemed like an eternity.

Fresh and freeing air wafts over my smiling face as the window is completely open. I listen intently, making sure mother isn't stirring. She shouldn't be awake until late morning. The sleeping capsules I slipped in her after dinner drink should suffice.

I should feel utterly terrible about lightly drugging my own mother, but I don't. Given the opportunity and the idea earlier, I would do it again. It's hard to feel guilty about oncoming liberation. She also has the pills for a reason, _so why not use them accordingly_, I think positively.

The night air seems crisper, thicker as it expands in my lungs. I know it is only my reaction to the activity planned for tonight, but I don't care.

A feeling of fear courses through me, but I can't allow it to stop me. My life is lived my family honor and for my mother and her wants - at least until I'm married. I take this night for me and all the freedom it gives back to me.

As I go to crawl out my bedroom window I turn back and make sure everything is situated. My canopy is closed, but still looks as if someone is sleeping in it. Should any of the help look in on me, they will think I'm there. They know better than to enter my room or even think to pull back my gauzy hanging.

_Mother shall be indisposed for the night_ . . .

With my bag positioned on my shoulder and my appearance acceptable for my outing, I shimmy down the trellis outside my window. It is quite trite and clichéd, but enticingly delicious. Father once thought it a bad idea, claiming his sons would "use it to somehow climb on and hurt themselves." He never even thought I'd use it.

I do feel guilt in thinking about my father, but I can't allow it to stop me. It's truly my one opportunity to let loose and allow come what may.

When my feet hit the ground, I feel myself from head to toe. I make sure my scarf is firmly tied around my head and tied low to the side. I know it covers most of my golden hair . . . and is quite fetching if I say so myself.

My full-length coat is covering my cotton-print dress. The material does feel odd on my skin. I'm only use to high quality clothing. It only adds another layer of this free night-blooming Rose. She only lasts for one spectacular night.

I bend over and put on my low quality shoes. They shall be thrown in the trash by the end of the night, along with my dress. It wouldn't do for mother or the help to find my rebellious clothes.

Once everything is ready and I know my makeup allows me to look truly different than myself, I start to walk away from my house. I plead for my heart to beat more quietly. It may wake up the neighborhood, from how loud it's pounding in my chest.

Five minutes I spend walking as calmly and confidently as possible from home. So far so good. It took much planning and cunning to even get ready for this night. Even just to buy the low-end clothes was a laborious job.

I smile when I spy the taxi waiting for me. I school my features as I slide into the back seat and suavely give the address of my destination to the driver. He eyes me wearily. Perhaps he thinks I'm some working girl, done for the evening after servicing my high society clientele in the rich Corn Hill district.

"Well, would you like to be paid for your services anytime this year?" I ask meanly, snottily. It comes too naturally.

The driver flinches from my tone and immediately starts to take me to my spoken destination. I can scarcely sit still and act calm. _C'est la vie_.

. .

Music beats loudly in my ears. The vibrations from the instruments melt blissfully into my skin. I soak in everything, every fine distinction around me. It is everything I'd hope it would be, and more.

Though I am unfamiliar with the band and most of the music being played, I can still appreciate the quality and rhythm. A couple of hours I have been here, and I have yet to tire of it. The club is smoky and thick to see through, but I could care less for once. Everything seems right in this place, as if nothing is missing.

My feet thump against the wooden floor as I watch the couples around me dancing to yet another song. Several times I have been approached to dance, but politely refuse. I don't know the dances, and it's not really the point of this evening. It's simply to bask in an environment and atmosphere so entirely different than my own.

I take a drink from my third alcoholic drink. I can't even define the drink, but it doesn't stop me from partaking. I can only testify it has a high proof rate. Alcohol is still forbidden, yet it doesn't seem to stop establishments from selling it. _Well, those that haven't been caught_, I think amusingly. An inelegant snort leaves my nose as I laugh at my muddled thoughts. Perhaps I've had too much to drink. My head is thrown back in laughter as I clap my thighs. This place is terribly fabulous. It's sad I can only come for this one night.

A new song comes on and it's finally one I recognize.

"'Bout time," I shout happily. "Something I know a little." People lounging near me look over. They study me before looking away. "Not to your l-liking," I ask risibly. They give me a fleeting look before ignoring me all together. _Oh well, 'tis one to their own kind . . . or something like that. My mind is quite muddled_. _Such a delightful place_. And on my mind swirls.

"Would you like to take a spin around the dance floor, Miss.," someone to my left (_or maybe my right_) asks. I look up and see a quite handsome man. His hair is brown and wavy. His cheeks are rather chiseled and hallowed. I wonder how deep my tongue would have to go before hitting skin. He's looking at me as if I'm piece of bacon. _Does he think me fat_? "Miss.?" he says again.

"Why the hell not," I agree before slapping a hand over my lips. Such language is not becoming of someone in my position.

"Don't tell my mother I cursed," I plead. He gives me a promising smile that sends my already rapid heart beating faster.

"Only if you dance with me." What choice do I have? Mother would be most displeased.

Before my hand can even land in his, a chilling voice sends pleasant Goosebumps dancing over my skin. It does sound terribly familiar to me.

"I'd rethink that offer." I shiver from the low and menacing tones of the voice. Mr. Hallowed-cheeks turns around to size up his competition. _I must look quite fetching tonight in my cheap dress_.

"This doesn't concern y-y-you," the man stutters as he finally turns around and sees the voice. _That sounds funny – the voice_.

"I believe you were saying something?" Again, I can't help the shivers running along my flesh. It should scare me, but for some reason I feel safe, almost satisfied. _Odd_.

"N-Nothing, sir," Mr. Hallow-scaredy-cat mumbles. _Too bad. He held some promise. I really want to dance to this song_!

"It don't mean a t-thing, if it ain't got that t-thing," I try and sing. I think that stuttering thing is contagious. _Gross_! I frown. I don't want to sound like a simpleton my entire life.

"What am I to do with you, Rose," someone asks me. I open my eyes and look into jewels. They are quite pretty and shiny. I want to get lost in those eyes. I shake my head and look over the rest of the face. Of course, he wants to rebel, too. Why didn't I think to invite him? Maybe I still can.

"Edward," I yell. He gives me a silly half-smile that sends my heart into over-drive. Mr. Contagious-Stutter has nothing on this smile. "Would you like to come to this club with me?" I ask politely, genteelly. I make sure to give him my most winning smile.

His pretty grin turns into a laugh. _I knew he'd think it a good idea to come here. It was quite nice of me to invite him_.

"And here I thought I already had." His hand comes up and brushes my cheek. The coolness does funny yet delicious things to my stomach. Is there something in his skin? I close my eyes lean into his glorious touch. _Why doesn't he do that more often? Pity_!

"As I suspected. You've had quite a bit to drink, love." I open my eyes and see him kneeling before me. He's been in that situation before. I know it!

"No," I playfully argue, shaking my head. "Only t-three." My smile turns into a frown as I stutter again. That guy must've given me something.

I stick out my tongue and try to get the stutters out. I spy a drink on the table in front of me and greedily drink it down. Before I can even finish it, my Edward takes it mischievously from my grasp.

"Can't you beat him up, Edward?" I plead pitifully. "That guy gave me something foul. And that's my drink, love. With your pretty smile you can have one of your own." I giggle, thinking about him using his pretty smile to get a free drink. I can't think why that seems funny. _Oh well_.

"I thought you wanted to dance instead. If you're too busy drinking forbidden alcoholic mysteries we shan't dance." I think of my options. Drinking nasty drinks or dancing with Mr. Pretty Smile. _Decision made_!

I jump up from my seat and lace my arms around my tall Edward's neck. He catches me as he weaves his own arms around my waist. The song, however, ends as we finally make it to the dance floor. _For shame_!

"I didn't get to dance, Edward," I pout. "Make them play it again." _Why is this band against me? What have I done to upset their sensibilities_?

"Wouldn't you rather dance to this one playing?" my pretty partner asks me. I look away from his captivating face and try to listen to the music. I lean further into his embrace as I find it hard to stand. I hope Mr. Contagious didn't make me incapable of walking, too.

"I know this song," I finally say. "Ginger something sings it." Edward's low chuckles fan over my face as I watch him. How can he smell so good? My legs feel like giving out again.

"Quite right, love," he whispers closer to my face. My head is bent back as I watch him watching me.

"Are we dancing, Edward?" My fingers somehow find their way into his hair. It seems too soft for a boy. He is so pretty. I can't help but sigh as we sway back and forth. Everyone else around us seems to be copying us, but I only have eyes for this pretty smile in front of me.

"Right you are." We sway and hold each other. My fingers play on the cool skin of his neck and silky hair. I want to lay my head on his chest but don't. How could I see him otherwise? My eyes feel heavy from the soft swing of our movement.

I feel his fingers removing the scarf from my hair. It falls a little into my face because I have it unbound tonight. No one knows because it is hidden behind my head scarf . . . _or was . . . I couldn't care_. Long tender sweeps run through my hair. It makes me close my eyes happily. I want to stretch like a contended cat.

"You were always meant to wear your hair down," I hear murmured into my ear. I press myself closer into the hard chest. It is my shelter, my comfort. "So beautiful. Beautiful Rosalie." I bit my lower lip and try to stop the soft tears that want to fall. _I don't know why_.

I lean back further again. His eyes are so dark, as if too many emotions are present and the colors representing them are competing for dominance.

"Pretty smile Edward. So u-unbelievably pretty." A cute, adorable smile comes over his pretty lips. _Are they fuller than my own? It should be me pouting_.

"Handsome, darling. Never pretty. That's reserved for ladies such as yourself."

I lean back and give him a lazy smile. "Pretty . . . handsome . . . gorgeous . . . sublime . . . transcendent . . . superlative . . . s-s-splendid," I finish my list of adjectives.

"You're too much, Rose," he laughs. My teeth nibble on my bottom lip as I try and give him my best stink-eye. _It doesn't seem to be working. Unfair_!

"You can annunciate _superlative_ with no trouble, but become tongue-tied on _splendid_."

"It's a difficult word," I argue . . . _okay, pout_. _But he's unfair_! _How can I think around his pretty lips_?

"I'll relent, love, and allow you the glory of a win." A silly, wobbly smile overtakes my pout. _I knew he was fair! Who kept saying otherwise_?

"You," he informs me quietly. My ear is about to fall off from his silky whispers. They beg for him to swallow them. Every part of me seems to want to abandon me for him. _Ah, who can blame them_?

"Oh."

And then without warning, we stop swaying. What happen? Have my feet abandoned me for him? I'd understand! _I'm a very understanding person_.

"The song has ended. And I think so has our rebellion for the night. Time for home. Yeah?" he asks.

That one word sounds so funny yet entirely too appealing coming from his mouth. "Yeah" . . . who would have thought it could send my heart racing. _Probably only coming from his very cultured and sinfully refined lips. It's as if the word is forbidden, too perfectly common for his vocabulary. I wonder what else is forbidden with him_ . . .

"Rosalie, seriously."

_Does his voice sound higher or is it just me. Maybe he swallowed something forbidden_.

"You're driving me to distraction. It is time to leave." I watch his lips – which are definitely fuller than mine – caress each letter. I can't help but lick mine in response. Can he swallow my tongue?

Before I can ask him my very thoughtfully probing question, he groans and wraps his arm around my shoulder. _We must be leaving. Why didn't he tell me_? I wrap my arms loosely around his waist and allow him to lead the way. He is such a fine and wonderful leader. Dancing with him convinces me of this. _His hard body seems fine, too. I wonder if he'll allow me to lick it. But first his pretty lips_.

I squeak as my coat is placed on me a little roughly. He's careful not to hurt me, but he is most definitely rough. Unexpected, too. I thought I was supposed to be driving him to distraction. I'm not quite sure where that is, but I'll ask for directions on the way.

I then watch as he puts his own light jacket on. _Isn't it summer? Why are we even wearing coats? I feel sleepy. I might not be up for driving_.

"Edward," I mumble between a huge yawn. I hope I covered my mouth; being a well-breaded lady and all that rot.

"Yes, love," he answers softly, but while laughing. _What's so funny_? I shrug my shoulders at his silliness.

We walk down the empty pavement, snuggling perfectly. I burrow my head further into his chest. I like the feel of his laughter on my skin. It tickles very pleasantly. _What would it feel like on my entire unclothed body_? I want to know.

Someone clears their throat and interrupts my very important thoughts. _Quite rude_! _A lady has to have important thoughts or else she's a ninny. I can't be a ninny, thus need to be naked against Edward_. _Makes complete sense_.

"If I'm naked with you, does that make me a ninny?"I ask forthrightly. It's a very important question that deserves a well-thought out answer.

"You want to take off your shoes, you say?" he asks after clearing his throat roughly. _Why does he like it rough_? I hear him groan loudly. _Odd. He's acting very peculiar tonight_.

"You're silly, love," I tell him. I look up at him and give him my most reassuring smile. The poor boy seems to need it.

"That I am, darling." His lips are too enticingly pretty. My tongue, for some reason begs to lick them. "Do you still want to take off your shoes?" _Did I say I wanted to? _

I shrug my shoulders and cuddle into the welcoming hardness of my Edward.

The sound of our feet sound funny with each step we take. His seem to clack while mine click. _Is it even possible_? Even our walking seems in sync with each other.

I take in a deep breath and cherish the coolness of the air. It was quite hot in that swingers club. My fingers curl into Edward's jacket and makes tight fists. I like the feel of the fabric.

"I drugged my mother tonight. I bet you couldn't have guessed that," I confess. I feel a need to tell him. I know he'll understand and keep my secrets. Edward is beyond amazing like that.

"It wouldn't have crossed my mind, no," my cool cucumber answers. Those who don't know him would think him cold and standoffish, but their wrong. _I should tell them that. They will rue the day_.

"Easy there, Athena. There is no need to fight any battles tonight. I shall defend myself quite well, otherwise." I look up at my strong Edward, and no, he isn't fibbing. His body says the same. _Goodness is he healthy_.

"I'm Rosalie," I tell him. He must have confused my name with someone else's. My Edward is silly.

"And so you are." His finger gently touches the curve of my cheek. I want him to glide it down to my lips so I can lick it. I love him touching me so gently, compassionately. I can see it written in his jewel eyes. "No comparison." His finger strokes the skin under his touch. I close my heavy eyes and bath in his sweet affection.

"I like you a lot, Edward," I tell him for no reason. My eyelids are very burdensome. It's as if someone put a sandbag over them. "You're my dear friend." I feel him exhale slowly, immensely. _I didn't know he had such big lungs. I must lick them, too_. "We're friends . . . right?"

He doesn't need to answer. The soft kiss to my sticky forehead is answer enough. _I __**knew**__ his lips were fuller than mine_.

"Yes, love. We're friends."

_Le sigh_, contentedly.

As the cool air swirls around me, making me happy but drowsy, I know I'm about to fall asleep. That can't happen. My bed would miss me entirely too much.

"Edward, love," I whine unenthusiastically. I wonder if he knows how tired I am.

"Would you like me to carry you home?" An instant smile spreads over my lazy lips. I can barley open my eyes or my mouth to tell him "yes, please". But words aren't needed. My pretty-lipped Edward knows me better than I know even myself.

He gently stops our lethargic walking and picks me up. _Isn't he the most wonderful man? I should carry him, too. But I'd rather lick him languidly. I know he would taste as sweet as he smells_.

I bury my face in his available neck and release my sleepy breath. I didn't even know oxygen could be sleepy. I nuzzle my face in the crease of his shoulder, wanting to find the most comfortable spot. _And goodness do I_. He smells like candy apples: the ones my father would buy for me at the local church bizarre and traveling fairs. Mother detested them. _Oh well, she is at home sleeping off her pills. La. Her disapproval is also taking a much needed slumber_.

"I adore you, Edward," I tell him. He needs to know of my abiding affection. He's like my moon that I confess my secrets to at night. He's cold, but so very beautiful; mysterious, but so very tangible; far away, but so very understandable. He listens contently to me.

"I know, love," he so very nicely informs me. I needed to know that he knew. I can go to sleep now.

"You have permission to change me, Edward," I tell him. I don't want him to feel shy when he changes me out of my clothes and throws them away. I can't have mother seeing them at all. She can't know.

For some reason my adored Edward stops breathing. He goes still for a while before exhaling sharply. He is so silly sometimes. He needn't fear seeing me in my unmentionables. I'm quite pretty like his lips.

"I'll be sure to remember that, Rose. Now go to sleep, honey. I have you. Safe and sound, Rosalie."

"I know, Edward." It's my turn to reassure him. It's a very easy and thankless job. He makes everything easy. "I want only y-you," I slur for some odd reason. My mind feels as heavy as my eyes, and quite fuzzy. It makes no sense to me, but there it is.

And before my mind shuts off completely _because it is being quite the brat in not letting me stay coherent_, I allow my lips to touch the skin under my lips. I only want a little sample. His lips would be preferable, but too far away.

_Just as I thought . . . candy apple. Delicious_! Hopefully his taste will linger on my tongue. I keep my lips there as I finally allow sleep to take me as Edward holds me safely and soundly.

_This must be distraction_.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

Author's Notes: Well, it has been quite a while. Things in my life have been chaotic and therefore I give no excuses.

Anyhow, what did you think of the chapter? It has been one of my favorites to write. I know it was heavy on Rose's thoughts, but it added to the humor for me. I loved her inebriated, silent ramblings. And I'd also like to taste Edward . . . Just saying.

Wanted to thank everyone who reviewed and PM'ed me. You are all so very wonderful and gracious! I so ever grateful!

That's the end of my ramblings for now. I hope all is well with everyone. Much love to everyone!

.

[1] 'The Democrat and Chronicle' is a newspaper in the greater Rochester, NY area. It was founded in 1833 under the previous name 'The Balance' and later merged with 'The Chronicle' in 1870 to become 'The Democrat and Chronicle'.

[2] In 1934 Rochester celebrated its one hundredth year. Thus 1933 would make Rochester ninety-nine. In 1930 it was ranked 22rd in overall population in the United States (320,000 +).

[3] The Corn Hill District is located on the banks of the Genesee River. The architecture and streets of Corn Hill are the first truly prosperous neighborhood in Rochester. Many of the buildings originate to the 1850s and earlier. It was home to many of the City's business and political leaders, Corn Hill contained rows of elaborate mansions whose grounds reached the banks of the Genesee.

[4] "It Don't Mean a Thing" was composed (August 1931) by Duke Ellington and made quite famous by his band. It was in top 20 songs of the 1930's. Edward and Rosalie dance to the song "But Not for Me", sung by Ginger Rogers in the Broadway show "Girl Crazy" (Cir.1930). I listened to the Judy Garland Version while writing the scene.

_Updated: Friday, 19 October 2012_


	13. Rain Must Fall

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns everything recognizable in the land of Twilight. No copyright infringement is meant.

**Rain Must Fall**

"_Into each life some __rain__ must fall.__"_

_- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_

_.~~._

September, 1932

I sigh wistfully as I raise my head up to the grey sky. I wonder what it is about rain and making an adult want to play in it. A light watery mist swirls around my skin, almost tickling it with its dewy softness. I want to giggle childishly but refrain. _Some_ decorum must be kept.

Though I'm not giggling madly does not mean I'm not showing some inappropriateness. The rough bark lining my back could attest. The hardness, however, isn't bothering me. I'm enjoying the youthful thrill sizzling playfully in my blood.

My uncovered toes wiggle in the wet grass, creating such a happy feeling under my skin. Never was I allowed the privilege of playing in the rain as a child. It is not every child's ambition to play in falling water from the sky, but it was something I longed for, yearned as I had to learn yet another social grace under the grueling command of the Madam.

I know it sounds as if I'm a spoilt debutant complaining about something so in vain compared to the state of our country, but it is the problems I have and the feelings I've felt. It doesn't make it wrong or right, just Rosalie Lillian Hale.

I now enjoy this small rebellion as my hair becomes damp and my skin a little sticky from the combined heat. It's quite invigorating. The rain must have components of healing in its soft droplets.

An involuntary sigh leaves my parted lips as I take in the rolling clouds. Such freedom and wild abandon they must enjoy.

It was not long ago that I had such a night. Just thinking about my "liberating" evening still brings a heated pinkness to my cheeks. I'm both embarrassed and happy about the evening. I woke up with my night gown on and my hair completely frazzled. My face was even pushed into a crinkled paper.

A smile lit up my face as I read that simple, sweet missive left on my pillow.

_Rose love,_

_Let it be stated you gave me the express permission to chance your attire. Don't worry, all eyes were closed and hands in check. I'm a perfect gentleman. Everything else was removed and thrown away. There's no need for worry. _

_When awaken, make sure to drink plenty of water to rehydrate. Excessive rebellion can be quite dehydrating. Just a known medical fact. _

_Thank you for allowing me the pleasure of your company. You were a sight to behold. One that was wholly, yet touchingly, unexpected. Thank you also, love, for putting your unstable trust in me. The pleasure means more than you could ever know or imagine. _

_Take care, Rosalie, and don't worry. You only continue to shine. _

_With an unforeseen yet anticipated meeting in the future - __E_

_PS_. _Don't stress about your mother. I believe she may awaken later than you. She may or may not have taken another sleeping capsule. Your house was too dark to tell, love_.

I still find sweet levity when thinking about his note. Mother hadn't woken up until well after Noon. She put it down to working too long and hard at her charitable contributions. I could only imagine how straining and difficult it must have been to lift her tea cup to her lips and back down. _The strenuous life of a lady in society_.

No matter how much Edward tried to console me, I still felt embarrassed at seeing him again. The most unfortunate thing, however, was the timing. It wasn't at our table in the library or at his secluded house. It had been at an unsuspecting dinner engagement. Little by little it seemed as if Edward came out into society more oft. This seemed both a blessing and a curse.

While I was always so terribly happy to see him, it seemed as if the other girls were, too. Scant time Edward had to himself. I wondered how he was ever able to breathe with so little room to exhale.

Often times, I could feel a growl wanting to erupt from my throat. But like the lady I was raised to resemble, I resisted. _But just barely_. It was quite unfair they could act so wanton in polite society, yet I still had to retain my most strongest of masks. Edward's presence made sure of that. Too often I could slip and thus held even more control over myself. Sleeping on those nights came oh so easy to me, as I found myself beyond tired.

I never felt so many extremes in the presence of another person, sans mother, seeing as she didn't truly count. I wondered if he brought out such feelings in others.

It wasn't that Edward really enjoyed their company, if his handsome frown meant anything. But it seemed when I happen to look at him–in the rare times I allowed myself–a mysterious smirk would align his beautiful lips. I couldn't fathom what had him grinning or what tantalizing conversation he must have been hearing. I'd allow the smallest of scowls to cross my lips before turning away.

_Those uncouth girls were more than welcome to him. I wasn't lacking in my own attention for company_.

It was pathetic, however, in only wanting his. But I did not let it linger in my thoughts for too long. Decorum had to be maintained.

It wasn't until after the dinner drinks were served, and the men retired from the room to talk politics that I felt any relief. Though I would have liked to accompany them and escape from the mundane and droll gossip of the evening, Edward's presence precluded me from such.

After some time, I finally felt safe to use the ladies. Letting mother know discreetly I had to leave momentarily, I let out a silent, relieved breath. I was free if but for a moment.

As I slowly approached, sounds of sickness met my ears. I cringed slightly, feeling both disgusted and sorry for whomever was in there. I hadn't thought the dinner too terrible. Though veal wasn't my absolute favorite, I had been able to retain everything. It seemed quite the obvious for her.

More than anything, I wanted to walk away, get out of hearing range from the sick heaves. But the need to comfort was surprising to me. It was a difficult decision. With an audible sigh this time, I raised my hand to the wooden door and politely knocked. I didn't know what response I'd get, but I still had to try.

When no response came, I tried yet again. The voice surprised me to my very toes. Of course it had to be Edward. _Why would I expect any differently_?

My heart automatically started to beat heavily. I could feel my hands sweat and skin itch as another wave overtook him. The time to leave became a fleeting thought in my mind as I found the knob and slowly turned. I wanted to give him warning of my coming in and not scare him too much.

My eyes watered at the sickly sweet smell. It was overwhelming. But none of my reactions deterred me. My dear friend was sick, and I only wanted to comfort him; everything else seemed to escape my notice.

It is interesting how that happens.

.

I silently shut the door as I kneel before him. The coldness of the tiles seeps into my scantly covered knees as I reach for the hand towel draped over the sink. I quickly dribble water over it before returning to my unwell friend. My annoyance with him over the evening is gone, left behind is my great concern for him.

The wet cloth is placed on his available cheek as he slowly tapers off. My stomach churns, not with my sickness, but with terrible worry for him. I've only ever seen him well. Not that our acquaintance has spanned for years. My other hand threads into his disarrayed hair and softly runs through. My heart is breaking for him.

"Edward," I finally venture, trying to keep my voice soothing and tender. "Darling?"

Soft, uneven moans leave his trembling lips. I can instantly feel tears come to my eyes. I never want to see him like this again.

I run the cool, wet towel along his forehead and cheeks. His hair becomes displaced and his forehead comes to rest on my shoulder. If anyone else (except my brothers) had placed their sick mouth so near my face I would have felt utterly disgusted, putout. But Edward isn't _anyone_.

"Sorry, love," he mumbles out achingly. Even this voice sounds entirely different. His sick breath fans the side of my neck and cheek, but I ignore the displeasure, only focusing on my ailing companion.

"What for, darling? Something beyond one's control?" I cajole.

"Among other things." I find myself placing soft kisses to his forehead as I run the wet cloth along his parted lips.

"Not at all," I reassure him. "It wasn't long ago that someone attended to me in a precarious situation. Not that this is the only reason I'm here, mind."

"Still . . ." I kiss his cool forehead once more as his breathing finally evens out.

"Could you pull back a little?" I ask, wanting quite the opposite, but it isn't about my wants. "Allow me to see your face, darling."

Without complaint, he takes his head from my shoulder and leans heavily against the wall. He looks so sad; it breaks my heart even further. But even with him being ill, he still has this elegant feel about him. I wonder how it's even possible, given what he's gone through. One of the many secrets about my dear friend, I suppose.

After I fold the soiled part of the cloth over and finish wiping his face, I deem him clean. Instead of finding his face flush and somewhat warm as I suspect, he's quite cool and too pale.

_He must be feeling even worse than I suspect_. _It must be more than the food. Perhaps he hadn't been feeling well before coming out tonight. If so, why would he even venture out? He should be at home, lying down_.

I pull my attention away from his face and my thoughts. He is still leaning against the wallpapered surface, but studying me quite intently. _What must you think of me, Edward? Do you think me disgusting for helping to wipe your bile, or forward for coming in uninvited_? I push the instigating questions from my mind and focus on him.

"There you are," I say softly. "All clean and as handsome as ever." I give him a salacious wink, which earns me a little laugh.

I place the soiled hand-towel in the sink before sliding back over to him. My knees are aching slightly from bending, but I ignore the discomfort. My unease is immaterial.

"Why come out tonight, Edward?" I finally ask, the silence becoming too much and his gazing too piercing. "If you were unwell, why not stay home?" I push the hair falling behind his left ear. The rest is left in disarray.

I tilt my head to the side, studying him as he does me. I let a tender half-smile come to my lips as he seems to be getting better. My heart starts to calm at the knowledge.

"I thought that quite obvious, love," he finally intimates. The little smile falls from my lips as I try to decipher his meaning.

_He must mean something entirely different_, I try and reason.

"One can't fault me from wanting to be near my friend."

The tears which clouded my eyes earlier out of concern for him return and fall silently, _hotly_ down my warm cheeks. I wonder how frightful I must look to him, when all I'm feeling is appreciated and taken aback.

Slowly I come to my senses, letting the smile once again grace my face. Before I can move, Edward's right hand comes up and wipes the moisture from my skin. His fingers are blessedly cool to the touch. "Beautiful Rosalie. Sweet nightingale . . . coming to my rescue."

"You pick such a place to give endearing platitudes?" I ask, finding the will to use my dry voice. Laugher rings from his throat off the papered walls around us.

"You would expect any less?" he counters. His elegant eyebrows rise at the question. Though the intense sweet smell has somewhat dissipated, some still lingers in the air.

"I suppose not." I lift my chin mock-defiantly into the air. "Though something is left to be desired . . ."

He laughs again, and this time I can't help but join him, despite our less than truly desirable environment.

"Dually noted." I appraise him before letting the corners of my mouth turn up.

"No matter, Edward. If feeling unwell, you should have stayed home." He gives me an acknowledged head bob. "It doesn't give me any happiness to see you so. I only want for you to be well and happy. Is this too much to hope for?" I ask, already knowing the only available answer.

"At times, . . . perhaps."

Nothing else is said for a time. We both simply stare at each other. Things truly, _stunningly_ fade into the background and the situation we are in becomes unimportant. The only thing seeming to penetrate my cognizant mind is Edward's presence.

I wouldn't later claim time stopped or my heart ceased to beat for that time, but it was still very poignant.

"You're so terribly handsome, Edward," I hear myself involuntarily admitting. I can't quite fathom where these truths are coming from. My cheeks instantly become pink as my eyelids flutter helplessly from the staggering admittance.

I go to turn my head in embarrassment, shame . . . but somehow he already anticipates my move. His cool fingers capture my chin before I can look away from his intense gaze.

"Beautiful Rosalie," he repeats from earlier. I am entirely apprehended. His thumb moves from the underside of my eye to my bottom lip. I shiver helplessly as he traces the outline.

Without even meaning to, or even consciously, we somehow move one step further from the friends' line into something shadowed. It's yet indefinable, but deeply felt.

Before either of us can even move, the moment is taken from us as someone knocks ungraciously on the door. I jump from fright; my eyes widen comically.

"Rosalie Hale, are you in there?" I hear the harsh, quieted tone of my mother. It should be more than apparent to her.

Edward's demeanor seems to shift without me even noticing. His soft eyes have turned steel-hard as his jaw clenches. I quickly shake my head, at the same time placing my forefinger over his parted lips.

"Yes, mother," I reply calmly as possible. "I was feeling a little poorly and thought to rest before returning. It wouldn't do well for me to have embarrassed you or father," I amend. I'm well-versed in knowing what to say in such unpleasant situations. Protecting our image is first and foremost.

"Hurry and put yourself to rights, Rosalie. Mrs. King was asking after you. One mustn't keep her waiting. And be sure you do look your best, dear. I'd be displeased if it were otherwise." And with the admonition, she leaves me in shaking peace.

I open my eyes and watch Edward trying to calm himself. I wonder if he can hear my heart beating heavily in my chest. The sound is entirely too loud in my ears.

I can feel my fragile self wanting to break, but I won't allow her to have such a victory over me. I'm better than my mother, and even she knows it. I straighten my shoulders and before I can remove my finger from Edward's lips he presses it in a tender kiss.

I bite my bottom lip as I try to stop the sweet tears from wanting to spill over my lashes. Only he could give such a soft-hearted gesture after being ready to snap not moments before.

"Don't give her the satisfaction, love. She shall never measure up." I can only nod my head at his beautiful declaration. He seems to always move me beyond response.

He quickly comes to his feet, and though he looks a lot better, I can still feel myself worrying over him, even through the turmoil mother causes.

"How much can one's battered-self take?" I ask aloud, if for no reason other than to allow some of the emotions bubbling under the surface a release.

"More than you should ever have to wonder or endure, love."

I give him a wobbly smile for his incredible effort. And once again our roles are reversed; I'm the one in need of comfort.

I watch as Edward takes a clean hand towel from the closet and slowly wets the corner. He turns me to face the mirror. I am captivated as I watch him in the mirror gently cleaning my skin from behind me.

His arms encircle me as they move to make sure nothing is out of the ordinary on my face. It is an incredibly intimate moment. I want to lean back and allow my body to rest against his stronger one, but I cannot. I don't think I'd have the strength to ever leave.

"There you are," he whispers in my ear as he places the used towel over the one I cleaned him with earlier; another thing about us which is linked. "Quite enchanting, if not more so then previously."

I go to turn in his arms which have me caged, but cannot. His hands are resting on the marble countertop, stopping my movement.

"No, Rose. Don't say anything." I look up and study his face in the mirror. It seems to do him such a disservice. _Is anything able to truly capture his splendid beauty_?

"Thank you," I speak softly, afraid to break the fragile atmosphere.

"Whenever, love," he murmurs just as softly.

His full lips find my face as he kisses my right cheek before dropping his hands. His arms fall back to his side, and all I want is to beg them once again to encase me; to keep me in the tender peace. However, it's all for naught. We each have a role and standing to maintain.

I don't say anything else, simply smile. We let the peace incase us momentarily.

And then it's time to leave

. .

That moment has replayed happily in my dreams. I'm not one to dream about past experiences, but with everything else about Edward in my life, it defies the norm.

My toes continue to wiggle as the tranquility from my memory settles over me. I can feel myself smiling for no apparent reason. It's such an exquisite reason. _For nothing_ . . .

Though the sprinkling rain comes down, and I'm somewhat sheltered under my oak tree, I know I must look mad. I can't be bothered by it. I feel like flapping my invisible wings and floating with the grey clouds.

I lean my head back and rest it on the sturdy trunk. I'll have to make sure all the little bits are removed before returning home. But for now, I could care less.

My eyes close as I once again let my thoughts turn to my darling Edward, _my friend_ . . . not that they are ever terribly far from him.

I can't help the wistful air leaving my deflating lungs. I can all but hear his voice as I become lost.

. .

"Edward!" I giggle as he reaches over my shoulder again and presses the incorrect key.

"Rosalie!" he mimics.

"You're trying to get me to play terribly on p-purpose," I accuse around my laughter. I adore his silly repertoire.

"How could you defame me so cruelly, Rose?" he asks, dreadfully wounded.

"Edward!" I yelp, embarrassingly, again as he reaches both arms around me. He starts to play his own rendition despite the musical notes on the paper that I'm trying helplessly to follow. _And not well at that_.

It seems Edward is a bigger distraction than even I give him credit for. I can't help but shiver.

"What . . . love?" I hear whispered silkily in my ear as my fingers stop moving completely. My body becomes stiff after shivers run through my skin and bones. I wonder if he knows the immense power he seems to hold over me.

"You are messing me up awfully," I accuse unevenly.

"Yes," he answers more like a question. Breath stops in my throat and renders me immovable.

Have you ever been utterly captivated by something or someone. As you watch, not only are your eyes intrigued, but so is your entire body. You find yourself leaning in, being pulled into the experience. Your mind becomes engaged, wanting to take in every little aspect.

.

_I remember (when little) walking with my father and brothers in town. My mother was in a store, buying something, and we were waiting on her. I watched my dad, trying to hide his annoyance._

_I wondered if others were also able to see the tight lines around his eyes like I was. My father and his mannerisms were very familiar to me. I was a daddy's girl and worshipped him. I studied him, wanting to be so much like him (of course mother didn't appreciate that at all)._

_My brothers were giggling slightly ahead of us as I held onto my dad's hand. Immediately my interest was caught. I stopped and just began to watch. My father was jerked back from my sudden inability to move. In front of me to the right was an old man (at least to my young knowledge) painting. I didn't know the style of painting, techniques or methods used, but I knew my young heart was beating rapidly._

_As he painted I could see the image truly coming to life before me. His aged hand worked rapidly over the canvas. I didn't understand how he could paint so beautifully, yet do it at such a rapid pace._

_Stroke after stroke was applied; the finish product was stunning. My ordinary vision of the town had become enchanting. The building, people, streets, signs and cars passing he painted looked captivating. I remember looking around and thinking if what he had painted was indeed what I saw._

_All of his colors blended together and created a watery, runny, yet vivid impersonation of the bustling afternoon I was a part of. My little world had been changed that afternoon. It was the first time I simply realized that people saw things differently. What I may have seen as beautiful and heart-provoking, some thought as trash._

_After my mom had come back and started pulling us away, I clearly remember her making disparaging remarks about his work._

_"Are we ever to escape these street urchins, Richard?" her regal voice asked. She may have thought him terrible, but she was smart enough not to say it loudly. We had a name and image to protect. "He takes up space painting his absurdity, while we are forced to all but walk in the street. What is Rochester coming to, dear?" she continued to complain._

_I looked to my father with a tear running down my cheek. He knew why I had cried. He could see the amazement in my eyes as I had studied the painting._

_"That's enough, Lillian." His voice was quietly controlled and held no argument. Mother looked at him confusingly but heeded his word. Though I didn't smile at my father's quieting her, I felt a little vindicated inside._

_Later that night after we had all eaten dinner and I helped my brothers get ready for bed, father came into my room, tucking me in. He kissed my forehead before whispering in my ear, "Everyone has different viewpoints, Rosie. What you may think is captivating, other will disagree. Don't let them change your opinions, darling. However, if anyone tries to tell you differently about your beauty, they're clearly mistaken and terribly wrong."_

_I giggled at his silliness as he nuzzled his face into my neck, causing me to laugh even more. His whiskers were scratchy._

_"Thanks, daddy," I said, wrapping my short arms around his neck._

_"Anytime, my sweet girl."_

_I fell asleep that night with a secret grin on my face and a knowledge that everyone didn't think the same way I did._

.

The memory becomes displaced from my mind as the tinkling notes of the music sound beautifully in my ears. Edward is beyond gifted in his ability. I shall always wonder why he doesn't want to go professional, but can also understand his reluctances in little to no privacy.

"Decided to join me again? Hmm? I had to take over your derelict duties." The scalawag doesn't wait for me to answer as he continues on playing the piano around my stilled fingers. "One would think I was entirely too boring for the esteemed and always fashionable Rosalie Hale."

"That could never be the case," I reassure him while staring at the moving black and ivory keys. From time to time Edward reaches over me as he plays his enchanting music. He is strong and solid beside me on the padded bench. "You could turn into a potted plant, and I would simply sit and watch you grow."

I turn from the keys to study his side profile. Instead of watching what he's playing, he's studying me. I can only think of how handsome and talented he truly is.

"That was really sweet of you to say, Rose." Where I think I'll see jesting on his part, his face only remains calm and resolute. He truly liked my playful statement, though true.

"It is true." He stares at me for a little longer before nodding his head and playing on. I'm touched by his innocence. It is so rare for me to catch him so unguarded.

I sigh internally as I sit by him, allowing him to serenade me with his incredible and nimble fingers.

_While slouching . . . thank you very much, mother_.

. .

The lightest droplets of rain continue to fall. It's as if there is a weightless mist being released from somewhere up above as I'm released from my memory.

It's often that I find myself lost in Edward. The contrast to when he came into my life versus before is quite starling.

My main goal has always been my future as a mother. Some may see my ambitions as boring or not befitting my station in society, but I have only ever craved motherhood. Dealing with high society, gentlemen's attention, mother's grueling perfect demands and my beauty have only been precursors for my most ardent ambition.

Now mixed in with my attainable goal is Edward. He is this other obscure, indefinable presence in my life. Yes, we are friends and reside in the same society. Yet there is _something else_. When I'm in the thickest of it, he resides on the fringe, bucking all the polite social norms.

Where most gentlemen all but swoon at my smile, Edward has me swooning embarrassingly at his; where most gentlemen can't help but gravitate towards me, it is I who is wanting to be near him. This juxtapose is foreign to me.

This isn't something I normally think about outside the privacy of my bedroom and cover of night, but the feathery-light rain makes me wistful. It fills me with hope for a better life and the optimisms of grand, happy futures.

I can't help it, and this once, I don't want to.

Clumping footsteps on the wet pavement break through my thoughts. I really should be surprised with my intuition, but I'm not. It is as if I come to expect him in the queerest of times.

"I see no introduction is needed." I laugh merrily at his salutations. He defies the expectations. "Is this seat taken?" he asks after my giggling stops.

I raise my eyebrows as I pretend to analyze him. "Perhaps . . . depends on who is inquiring."

"I daresay your close friend." He winks too enticingly at me. I could never have the will power to tell him no. It's a scary apprehension. I can hear my heart beating, _oh well_.

"Then I suppose you had better sit," I banter back.

We both become lost in our mirth as he sits next to me. Even though I have a blanket on the ground if defeats the purpose, considering it's wet.

I give him a winning, warm smile before turning back to the forefront. Words aren't always needed when we are existing together. Sometimes the silence is the most rewarding conversation between us.

I let my mind drift on my afternoon lectures and all that I learned. I sigh unhappily as I think of the assignments which need to be completed.

_It's worth it, Rosalie_, I tell myself consolingly. _Not everyone has my opportunities, and it is all done for an express purpose_.

"Why are you exhaling so loudly, Rose?" my companion asks amusedly.

I can't explain why I choose this time to tell Edward, yet I can't find a reason not to. It's something I keep the closest to my heart, but I want to tell him. Edward seems to have taken place in my heart almost as close to my greatest dream. Something I never thought possible by anyone.

"I was thinking about my most ardent wish in this life, Edward," I whisper helplessly. It's something which is sacred to me.

"And what is that, love." I turn away from him, unable to both look at him and watch his beautiful lips form the sweet endearment. I'm scared by how much I need him in my life. _In such a short time_ . . .

"I want to be a mother," I finally confess, delicately. I don't know any other way to confess it besides gently.

My eyes close as my heart begs them to open and observe Edward's reaction. But I don't posses such courage. I'm not at some party and reflecting Rosalie Lillian Hale. I'm simply Rose at the moment. She can be quite shy and so uncertain of herself.

"You probably think me silly, only ever wishing to be a mother," I mutter more to myself than anything else. Edward just happens to be near me.

It's one of the many reasons I keep such private revelations to myself and in the privacy of my darkened bedroom, I don't want to be mocked or ridiculed for something others see as prosaic.

"I don't think even mother knows. I could only imagine her response," I continue as my afternoon companion remains silent.

It's quite oppressive to me, yet I try to fill in the silence with non-issues. "'_Rosalie Lillian Hale, how you dare even suggest wasting all of the training I've invested into you_,' she'd say. '_To want to stay home day in and day out to take care of some child; it's insupportable, and I shan't allow it_.'" My imitation is quite good if I say so myself.

"In the end, it truly doesn't matter to me. Once I'm out from under her thumb, she won't have much command over my decisions, and my last name will cease to be Hale. Thus she need never worry about me shaming our family name and legacy."

Still Edward remains silent and the slight irritation to my skin is starting to itch. It is awfully uncomfortable. I try to ignore the surmounting discomfort, but can no longer. If I do not scratch then I shall surely combust.

"Have you nothing to say, Edward?" I break pathetically. Regardless of whether he knows it or not, his opinion of me means a lot. I do not want him thinking ill of me, too.

I take in several deep breaths as my fingernails dig into my irritated flesh. With what little courage I'm able to scrounge up, I look over to my silent friend, taking in his facial reactions. Like most times, he is all but inscrutable. He can seem so impossible at times.

"Please, Edward, just tell me anything. How has your day been?" I know I sound like a crazy person, but his silence is all but deafening. The ringing in my ears is quite loud.

His impassive face finally turns from stone to something else, something a little livelier. I could only ever hope to emulate his facial and bodily control. Perhaps if I had his regulation over myself, mother wouldn't always be so disappointed in my performances. With perfect such as his, there is nothing to disparage.

"You mistake my silence, love," comes his gentle reassurance. I feel the tight tension leave my skin. I can't help but sigh in relief. His term of endearment is more relief to me than any other thing he can speak.

"How so?" I inquire.

He studies me momentarily before continuing, "I don't think your ambition in wanting to be a mother is silly. I think it the most noblest of ambitions. Where is the shame in wanting to raise someone who loves you unconditionally? Where is the silliness in wanting to bestow your love and attention on someone who is a literal part of you? I think motherhood the most splendid of professions, love."

My mouth is open so inelegantly. I can only imagine the fish I must now resemble.

"So you don't think me lacking in substance?" He looks at me incredulously, _unbelievingly_.

"Quite the opposite, Rose. Your highest aspiration isn't to find the wealthiest man and then live for the next tea party. You want to give unfathomable love to something you created. How could you ever doubt the substance in such desire?"

I shrug helplessly, not having an available answer. I look at my mother and how she is able to accomplish both. Of course we had nannies attending to us as children, and I mostly entertained my younger siblings. They thought of me more as their mother than Lillian.

After they were sent to boarding school, it seemed as if my main purpose in this life – the very reason I created – was taken from me.

However, Lillian seemed to accomplish both tasks, if not one lacking for the sake of the other. I do not want to be her.

"You shouldn't doubt such beautiful intentions. We are each infinitely different, and I can attest to that, Rose. Don't punish yourself for wanting something which may not be vogue."

How am I able to respond to such glowing and well-received praise? I can breathe eternally easier now that I have his good opinion. I know it shouldn't mean as much to me as it does, but I crave my friends' reactions. I know it will be given fairly and unsoiled by the demands and norms of our society.

Edward is always above the fray. _He doesn't even wear hats in public like most gentlemen do_. It's a terribly silly thought to have at such a time, but it makes me smile happily, nonetheless.

"What is your grand ambition in life, Edward?" I ask curiously, knowing I'm being entirely too busybody.

It's isn't really my place to know, but I _want_ to know Edward like no one else. I want to have that claim over him.

The slight smile on his face fades into grim lines. Immediately I can feel the guilt start to swamp me. I always seem to make things worse with Edward, saying the wrong thing, not explaining things properly or leading him to believe me different.

"Please," I start straight away, "I didn't mean to offend, Edward. I've always been too curious for my own good and need to learn when not to tread too far." I can't say anything else.

No other words of contrition or explanation come to mind. All I can do is sit and allow the moisture in the air to saturate my heated skin. It doesn't feel good any longer. The humidity around me is almost suffocating.

After several moments of nothing but silence from misty day companion, I start to stand. I don't want to disappoint him and I know if I stay, other inappropriate questions will come to mind. I can't even fathom where my filter goes when Edward is around me.

"I don't want to be a monster, Rosalie." I'm stunned by his admission. I'm in between standing up and sitting down, yet I stand completely still at his words.

I find myself utterly lacking in words and deed. I'm all but statuesque. I wonder how silly I look to him and the scant amount of people I've seen this afternoon. Rainy weather isn't everyone's forte.

Slowly, I come back to myself and feel my legs descending. I hit the ground gracelessly, but can't find the will to care. My back comes into contact with the tree truck again as I slump uncomfortably.

_How could he ever think such a thing_?

My heart starts to hurt. It pounds loudly in my ears, and though my eyes are stinging, I refuse to let tears fill them. This isn't about me at the moment.

I knew Edward thought poorly of himself, but this recrimination is beyond my comprehension. I can't fathom where he gets such a lowly opinion of himself.

"Edward," I say, trying to garner his attention, but he refuses to face me. "Please, darling." My voice is even softer than before. A if sensing my deep and abiding need to have him look at me, he turns.

His face is immovable, but his eyes seem to be swimming in guilt. They speak too eloquently of his past pain, pain I can't even understand or touch.

"You are not a monster," I tell him with all the honesty I can muster. It is something I believe whole-heartedly.

He scoffs softly. His reaction isn't meant to hurt my feelings, but I feel a little hurt . . . _on his behalf_.

Even in his pain, he is beyond stunning. He could render even the most outspoken person, speechless.

Without consequence, I raise my trembling hand and place the palm curved onto his face. My thumb automatically strokes the apple of his cheek. Like always his skin is cool to the touch, yet it warms me infinitely. He's quite the conundrum, my friend is.

"You distort yourself so severely, darling," I try to reason.

Like him, I am my harshest critic (sans Lillian). But also like him, I must realize there are things we both don't know about the other. It's a sad realization that hits me suddenly. Yet here it is, not to be forgotten.

I try and wipe the sudden insight from my face while biting on my lower lip. It will give me something to occupy my facial features. _Uncontrollable around him. Drat_.

I stop caressing his face and just gaze into his perfection. I look at his hair and can't help but smile. It seems to be his only outwardly imperfection, but I adore it all the more.

"Don't think me perfect, love." I want to ask how he knows, but he can probably see it shining in my eyes. "You'll only come out disappointed. Esme could tell you all about such disappointment."

We have a staring contest as I refuse to budge. Yes, I know my friend isn't perfect and he has his failing, but they are so much more difficult to see or find. He keeps everything so immaculately hidden.

"I doubt that, darling. And I don't need anyone else's opinion to make up my own. I'm actually quite capable," I jest towards the end.

He cracks the smallest of smiles, but I still see it, whether he wants me to or not.

"There you are. I can only imagine how difficult it must have been to crack even the most infinitesimal of grins." He tries to hold it in – my stoic friend – but the laughter spills from his beautiful lips.

"You're entirely too incorrigible, Rose."

"I'll be sure to alert the presses." He laughs a little more freely before leaning his head against the tree truck and angling more towards me. He looks the picture of casual elegance. _So captivating_.

"You make things better." He points to his temple. "You quiet things in my head, love. I was so very wrong about you. So very wrong." I don't really know what he is referencing, so I simply shrug my shoulders. I guess it's always good to defy preconceived notions.

He peels my hand from about his face and entwines his fingers through mine. My heart stutters embarrassingly in my chest, but I am quick to ignore it. There are so many more interesting things to be aware of.

He brings our combined hands up to his lips before placing the softest, most tender kiss to my skin before dropping our hands onto the damp blanket between us.

I tilt my head and let the touching tears now cloud my eyes. The sky isn't the only one to mist over.

"I adore you, Edward . . . monster or no," I can't help but confess. I don't even realize the words are falling from my tongue.

"Me too, Rosalie. Me too."

Nothing else is said as we both lean heavily on the truck of the tree and share in our silent truths.

The nourishing mist continues to swirl as it seeps into our skin and purges us of our distortions, lowly opinions and overwhelming internal disenchantments.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

Author's Notes: Oh goodness gracious, darlings, the chapter is finally complete. I wipe my sweaty hands and continue writing this inane rambling (ha).

I can't express my apology in making you wait so long for an update, and I won't bore you with excuses, but I will thank those who pushed and prodded me to finally get this chapter written, edited and posted. My appreciation is above and beyond.

To those who reviewed last chapter, my adoration is heaped onto you. Your kind words and fair critics are so welcomed and cherished. For the few moments you take to review, it adds so much happiness to this lowly author, more than you could possibly imagine. My heartfelt appreciation.

Well, what did you think of the chapter? I loved writing it, and finally getting it done. My favorite part was the bathroom scene. _I know_ . . . what am I **thinking**? . . . hehe. But I simply loved the devoted way Rose cleaned up her beloved friend. It is a true mark. Please review, my darlings. It is a time of giving, after all. ;)

I have most of the next chapter written, so the update won't be nearly as long. Give or take a week and a half. It is LONG and needs a fair bit of maintenance.

Until next time, I end this hideously long A.N. Love to all!

_Updated: Sunday, 2 December 2012_


	14. Black and White

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns everything recognizable in the land of Twilight. No copyright infringement is meant.

**Black and White**

"_He idolized it all out of proportion...no, make that: he - he romanticized it all out of proportion. Yes. To him, no matter what the season was, this was still a town that existed in black and white and pulsated to the great tunes of George Gershwin."_

― _Woody Allen__, __Manhattan_

.~~.

Third Week of September, 1932

The lights of this enchanting city sparkle around me as my aunt and I walk along the less crowded streets. Though it is ten in the night and less people are milling about, it still doesn't take away from the mystic, the glamour of the city. It's quite glorious.

I am not blind to the crime and degradation of the city night, but it seems to have no affect on me now. I'm feeling too sated from the Broadway show Auntie and I have taken in. The acting was superb and the singing sensational.

I can hear Clarence walking slightly behind us as we make our way through the scattering crowd. I'm quite certain they are either heading home, or somewhere else to finish out their evening. Regardless, I know we are quite well protected with Clar nearby.

Chatter fills my ears about the show, and I can't help but agree. I only hear rave reviews amongst the rest of the patrons. The theatre is quite a magical and entertaining place. I often speculate on how I would do in the Entertainment industry. Sometimes it seems anyway as if my entire life is acted out under the hot lights of a stage.

"Wasn't it splendid, Rosalie, darling?" Aunt Jacqueline asks, knocking me from my supposing.

"Yes, quite." I turn to her, smiling. She is a tremendously extraordinary woman.

Though never married, she is independently wealthy. Even after the Stock Market Crash three years previous, she retained most of her wealth. How? . . . it is beyond my knowledge. I can only formulate she is more economic-savvy than anyone could ever know. Perhaps the bulk of her monies are invested in gold. Father does prattle on about the value of gold and how solid of an investment it is. My dear old father can wax poetic about finances.

Like father and myself, she has striking violet eyes. Though her hair is slightly graying, and nearing her early fifties, she can outlast almost everyone else. Robust doesn't even begin to describe Jacqueline Hale. She is outspoken, opinionated, vigorous and rather straightforward. She speaks not in riddles, but clear and uncomplicated. She is immaculate and so beloved by myself.

I smile contentedly being in her presence. Few others have such a genuine affect on myself.

A cool, late summer breeze blows by, causing me to pull my fox fur stole tighter around my arms. It feels incredibly soft against my goose-bumped skin.

"What has you smiling like a loon, girl?" my aunt squawks. I can't help but giggle. She can be terribly indecorous. "People would think I sprung you from the infirmary."

"I was only reflecting on how wonderful it is to be in your presence, auntie," I say as innocently as possible. I try but know my efforts in making her feel guilty are wasted.

"Poppycock, girl. You should be with youngsters your own age and not stuck with someone as feeble as I."

It is my turn to be unladylike as I snort. The day she is feeble is the day mother would allow me to work on cars.

"Such would truly be the day," I rebut. She pats my back rather hard, causing me to stumble a little. _Feeble, my eye_, I muse darkly where my back is now smarting.

"No need to flatter me, darling. You're already in the will." As is her response to any kind of compliment. At least amongst family.

She cackles loudly and draws the attention of everyone around us. She is one of a kind; caring nothing for stodgy social norms.

"But truly, Rosalie. I would see you interacting with a younger generation. It's unfortunate you don't know anyone here. If Lillian would only allow you from her _bony_ clutches everyone now and then, perhaps you'd have more acquaintances in the Big City.

Auntie's enmity of mother is well-known. When visiting, I know father feels as if he has to run constant interference. I feel utterly sad for him. His wife and sister cannot find any common ground. Even the topic of my upbringing is war between them. Both strong-willed and hardheaded women.

Even when we had first arrived for our end of summer holiday, the first thing Auntie said to mother was, "_Honestly, Lillian, can't you find a more out-of-date dress? That material looks like the drapes I had hanging from my windows last season_." I had to fake a cough, needing to hide my inappropriate laughter.

"Come now, Aunt Jackie," I allow, smiling widely at the memory from a couple weeks prior, "you know that isn't quite the case. Even if I did visit regularly, where would I find said acquaintances? And who is to say, they'd want to be my long-lost companion?"

My aunt stops abruptly. I all but trip also, needing to stop immediately. If not for Clarence catching me, I would have surely fallen over. The woman has the reflexes of a cat.

Incredulous eyes stare me down, and I have to fight not to shuffle under the scrutiny.

"What," I finally blurt out, not being able to take the heat.

"You're blinder than your own old auntie, girl. My beautifully captivating girl could have the pick of the town. And I defy anyone else to tell me differently." She takes her piercing eyes from me and puts them onto Clarence. I bite my lips because I have to stop myself from laughing. Even he shuffles uncomfortably under her piercing stare.

"Tell her, Clarence, dear," the old bat commands. I know she simply enjoys putting people on the spot. She is quite the instigator.

"Ms. Hale is right, Miss. Rose. It's unbecoming to fish for compliments." My traitor of an aunt starts to cackle even more loudly than before. Even Clar is having a difficult time not grinning.

My jaw drops open at the duplicitous statement from my friend. I knew he would jump ship for _Ms. Hale_. My cheeks are quite hot from their playful banter and teasing of me. Though I try to look outraged, inside I am glowing brightly. My love overflows. It's quite freeing.

"Why, I never," I say snootily. My nose is high in the air as my arms are crossed over my chest. I can only hope I look terribly put out.

Around us, people are openly staring, probably wondering what is actually happening.

"Oh, poppycock, girl!" Auntie calls my bluff. She is too much. Before I can bite my bottom lip, the mischievous grin appears.

As I go to answer her rebuttal, she surprises me even more.

"You, young man," my aunt calls to a passing patron. Seeing as he is behind me, I can't see his face; I can only testify mine is on absolute fire. _Why must she be so infuriating . . . beyond embarrassing_ . . .?"

"Auntie," I whisper-hiss, but she _graciously_ ignores me. Note the _sarcasm_.

"Yes, young man . . . you with the ginger top." Not only is she loud, but insulting. I can only imagine the horrified look on the poor lad's face.

As I go to turn around and apologize to the frightened young man, Clarence stops me cold. _Why would now be any different? Why should I be the least bit surprised_?

"Edward?" Clar asks, aghast.

I feel my breath catch and my heart start to race. My reaction to Edward isn't any different. My body comes on high alert when we are in public and not alone together; although, my heart has been known to race with us alone together. My reaction to him isn't any different than any living, breathing woman still retaining her sight.

My feet find the courage to turn around and face my always-popping-up-in-the-most-peculiar-of-places friend.

"Hello, Edward," I whisper gently. My breathing still hasn't returned to normal.

My shrewd aunt – not missing a single thing (the old bat) – catches on to my breathlessness. A light, happy, knowing smile spreads over her thin lips.

_Goodness me, _I lament._ Why hasn't the earth stopped spinning? Why are the lights to the bright marquee still lit up? Why can't my observant aunt be blind in her infernal age_? Even with all these ludicrous thoughts, I still love my meddling aunt.

"My, my, young man . . . it seems as if my enchanting niece is already acquainted with you. Is that why you looked as if I caught you doing something naughty?" she inquires boldly.

In all the time I've known my friend, I've never seen him look so taken aback. He looks as if Jackie has read his mind. If he only knew how actual little gets by her. It doesn't matter if her attention is on something else, she always notices her surroundings.

"Edward," I say hurriedly, coming out of my stupor, "there's no need to answer her. My aunt has a terrible habit of putting people on the spot." I'm still stunned in seeing him in New York City, yet alone outside the same theatre as my little entourage.

"Nonsense, Rosalie, darling. There's no need to speak for the boy. Tell me, are you a mute?"

My head drops into my hand as I try to hide my embarrassment. Even Clar can't face my audacious aunt. The softness of my stole has left and is now irritating my itchy skin. It is the mark of me being the utmost aggrieved.

Beautiful, masculine laughter fills my throbbing ears. It's as if the clouds part and a ray of sun sprinkles down on me. _Too cliché_, I wince.

My head automatically pops up to see Edward standing directly in front of Aunt Jackie and laughing at her inquisitive nature. She has a delighted smile etched on her thin lips. _Will miracles cease to happen_? I wonder –over-dramatically.

"No, madam, I am quite vocal. I only choose to speak when required or directly spoken to, instead of constantly prattling on about nothing. There is nothing becoming about a ninny." Once again, Edward shows he has the allure to charm even the hardest of shells. My aunt is no soft sale.

Her boisterous mirth frightens a young couple strolling nearby. It's hard to believe that such a sound could come from such a small (yet sturdy) woman.

"You must join us for tea, young man," she commands, already knowing he will come. It's something I want, yet fear. I can't explain why, but the feelings are still present.

"Why, I was just telling my little Rosalie that youth is meant to be spent on her peers and not on the aged, such as me. It would seem as if you need the same talking to," she continues as she links her arm with him, leading our small party on.

I'm mystified as to how this even happened and if it is even real. My life, even in the most mundane moments seem anything but. However, if Edward is present in my life, I'd welcome the moments whole-heartedly. _But a little warning wouldn't be remiss_, I tell the cosmos silently.

"My, my, you are quite the strong young man, Edward. May I call you Edward?" she inquires as an afterthought (while feeling his upper arm, mind you) and doesn't even wait for him to answer politely. "I hope you like tea, dear. There's nothing I quite fancy more than a lovely made cup of tea. Well, my dear niece and nephews might be able to compete. Do you hail from a large family, Edward?"

And on she continues as Clar and I walk behind, shaking our heads in disbelief and pity for Edward. It is going to be a long evening.

"Chin up, Miss. Rose. All's well, ends well," he consoles me.

_From your lips to someone's ear_ . . .

**.**

"And then, young lad, my little Rosalie declares she shan't be wearing a bathing costume and proceeds to prove thus. I daresay she stopped several of the older gentlemen's heart at the pool deck. She had her mother in shambles and my brother in hysterics. I couldn't help but fall terribly in love with my little Rosalie then," my aunt coos sweetly as she looks over to me. I give her an endearing smile. I love her so very much. Embarrassing stories, aside.

I look from her to Edward. He has an indulgent grin spread over his beautiful lips. I blink embarrassingly at him. I only want to hide behind my pinned back hair.

"You see, Edward," I say, wanting him to get that awfully beguiling smile from his handsome face. "My aunt loves anything and anyone who can rile up mother. It's been her life's endeavor," I comment knowingly while giving said aunt a calculatingly look.

"Darn right you are, my love. But you know as well as I, Lillian gives as well as she receives. The difference being, little she does actually works," Auntie declares triumphantly.

I giggle, knowing the truth of what my aunt speaks. I turn to Edward and give him an exasperated eye-roll. He simply winks. I look away hurriedly.

Before anyone else can say anything a movement catches my eye. I sit my tea cup and saucer down. My attention comes to rest on my little Benjamin. He looks adorably rumpled in his silk pajamas. Even though he is ten years of age, I still see him as a baby. I was near seven when he was born. When mother ignored us children if favor of other things, I took it upon myself to coddle and love my brothers unconditionally. They became my life until it was time for them to attend Boarding school in the city. At least Aunt Jackie has them nearby.

"Rosie," my little darling rasps out. My heart melts at the sight of him, and my soul yearns. With him I am in my greatest element. No strenuous practice or sitting in front of my vanity was ever needed. Motherhood came quite naturally to me.

I quickly get up from my seat to kneel in front of him, not minding my expensive dress; they are trifle concerns when my brothers are in need of me. He rubs the sleep from his tired eyes before focusing on his surroundings.

"What are you doing up, darling?" I ask gently. My hands raise as one tenderly strokes his flushed cheeks and the other sooths the hair from his forehead.

He leans into my outstretched arms as his smaller ones wrap around my neck. I fall for him every time. My love knows no limits for him.

"I had a terrible dream, sissy," he confesses quietly as possible in my ear. I know him to be embarrassed.

I take in his fresh scent as I pull him into my body and lift him up. I carry him to my vacant chair and thank the heavens above he's too tired to complain. Though he loves me, too, he's already declared to me, "_I'm too old for coddling, Rosie. Ten is quite the distinguished age, you know_." He sounded quite important while trying to cue me in. I only felt my heart hurt a little at the pronouncement.

As I situate him in my lap and place his lulling head on my shoulder, I try and whisper sweet and comforting words to him. His rapidly beating heart starts to slow, and I know he is becoming calm under my gentle attention. His eyes droop a little, but I know he isn't sleeping. He's simply taking in his surrounding and my even heartbeat.

"Who is our visitor, sissy?" Benjamin asks, reverting to my childhood nickname both he and Henry called me.

"He's a friend from home," I explain. I expressly use the term "friend" instead of acquaintance. It would be a lie and a disservice to label Edward as anything else. "His name's Edward Cullen and he watches out for me, without you and Henry at home."

I know my words will go a long way in helping my brother to feel better, both with his nightmare and with Edward's presence.

Benjamin's little chest puffs out a little at my slight praise. I tighten my arms around his shoulders as he snuggles back into my embrace.

"Was Henry still sleeping?" I inquire, worrying about my other little love. _Well, if one could think thirteen as little_, I muse _wistfully_, playfully.

"Yes, sissy, but his snores were atrocious," he declares, angrily, _cutely_. His cultured accent sounds funny with the heavy sleep tingeing it.

"Too right you are, my darling," I agree, pulling a contended smile from the _young boy_ in my arms . . . regardless of how old he may declare himself.

"Are you able to say hello to Edward? I know your manners haven't left you in your sleep," I chide delicately in his ear, not wanting to embarrass in front of everyone. He has the good grace to blush slightly.

Benjamin sits up slightly but makes sure not to leave the shelter of my arms. Unlike Henry, he is more outgoing, more talkative. Henry tends towards the shy side; more like our father. He is all but a miniature of our father.

"Hello, Edward. It's nice t-to meet you." I try not to laugh as my little one yawns hugely in the middle. "I hope you look after my sister well. She's quite pretty, you know," he says matter-of-fact. I know he is quoting our father. He tried to train them up to look after their older sister. I think it was wasted with me mothering them too much. _Oh, well_.

I blush helplessly while trying in vain not to roll my eyes. Leave it to my tired, little brother to embarrass me.

"Yes, well . . . that is neither here nor there." I kiss his forehead to try and hide my pinkening reaction.

"Right you are, Benjy," Aunt Jackie finally chimes in. I'm all but astonished she was able to retain her opinion for this long.

Edward coughs as if he has something stuck in his throat. I turn my attention towards him.

"Are you alright?" I ask concerned, my embarrassment forgotten. He gives me a wobbly grin but his eyes look a little glassy. _Hmm, strange_. It was almost as if a laugh got stuck in his throat and he was trying in vain to suppress it.

I quickly stand up and secure my snoozing brother in my arms, knowing this will be my only opportunity to escape the room. As much as I adore Edward being here, I cannot take all the attention with my aunt present. Before I know it, she'll be trying to arrange a play date for us . . . as if we are toddlers.

"I really must get him to bed, auntie." She gives me a sympathetic look as I pretend my brother's weight is all but too much for me to handle, when it isn't the issue. One thing is for certain, when push comes to shove, I can still act well under pressure.

"Of course, darling. We shan't keep you." My aunt now tries to hide a yawn behind her hand. It is after midnight.

"Allow me to assist you, Rose," Edward selflessly offers. _Goodness me_ . . .

He gives me a winning smile.

"What a generous offer, young man," Auntie praises. She acts as if Edward created the sky and the waters below. I successfully hide my smile in my brother's warm hair.

After helping my aunt stand and after she gives us warm salutations for the night, Edward comes over and removes my sleeping brother from me.

I can't help as my breath catches quietly in my throat. My stomach is doing odd flips and my hands are sweating as Edward carries my little love tenderly in his arms. He acts as if he might break Benjamin, he is so gentle. If I hadn't adored Edward before, watching him with my brother would have sent me careening over the already precarious edge.

I silently lead my friend down the hall and into my brothers' room. I can scarcely see Henry in the weak light of the hall. I point Edward over to Benjamin's bed before going over to resituate Henry. He was always a wild sleeper.

He's already twisted up in his covers and all but falling from his bed. I suppress my laughter at his sleeping antics as I tuck him in back safely into his bed. I kiss his matted hair and whisper my enduring love to him.

I turn and watch as Edward tucks in the corners of Benjamin's covers. I wonder if he realizes how much of a natural he is. How instinctively right he looks putting a young boy to bed. My heart is all but bleeding over at the beyond tender moment. Three people I love so very much are in this room, near enough for me to watch.

I bend over and press my lips to my little love's flushed cheek. His eyes crack open only slightly, and I wonder if he's even really awake.

"Thanks, sissy," he rasps out before his eyes shut again helplessly. "Tell E-Edward thanks, too. He's very kind and I already l-like him . . ." And then nothing.

I'm surprised he was even coherent enough to realize Edward had carried him into his room, yet alone to declare his acceptance of my friend.

I press my lips to his cheek again and this time he doesn't even flinch. He's down for the count. I utter a quick prayer that his dreams will be only of the happy variety.

My hand ushers Edward out of their bedroom. I don't want to talk and run the risk of waking them up again.

As we leave the hall, leading to the private bedrooms, and past the lounge we sat for tea, I can see the staff has already cleaned up our nightly drinks. The lights are dim, but still enough to guide our path down the marbled hallway.

When we finally reach the grand entrance, I gather my courage and turn to Edward. Seeing him with my brother threw me for a loop. It was even more touching than I could have ever imagined or conjured up. Edward always seems to surpass my seemingly lowly expectations. I wonder if he knows what a limitless potential he seems to have. There are so few people who seem to have that kind of enduring capability . . . _as if even the sky isn't the limit_.

"As Benjamin told you earlier, thanks. I could have handled him, but your help was appreciated and most welcome." He bows his head in acceptance. I want to reach out to him, to caress his flawless face, but refrain. It would be most inappropriate. My fingers begin to wiggle at my waist.

"What are you doing in New York City," my heart finally asks, bypassing the cool logic of my brain. Again, my traitorous filter seems to have deserted me.

Edward gives me that smile which has the potential to send my knees to the ground. I make sure they are stabilized. My skin is already flushed in enough mortification from my impolite question.

"Same as you, I'd daresay." I study him, trying to see beyond his steady answer. I can count on my hands the number of times I've seen him on shaky ground. _My cool-headed, adored friend_.

"You daresay?" I question inquisitively, suspiciously.

"Of course, love." With skilled knowledge, he unhinges me. I defy anyone not to fall at such an endearment flowing from this divine man's lips. "You would doubt me?" he challenges amusingly.

"Perhaps," I drawl out, before giggling helplessly. It's late, I'm tired and deliriously happy to be in my good-friend's company. Life couldn't be grander. I even have my beloved brothers under the same roof as me.

"Perhaps," he copies me before continuing, "I should have tucked you in, too. You're quite wobbly on your feet, love." He reaches out to stabilize me. I guess his point is proven. However, my heart beats too happily at his touch. It is as if it wants to abandon me and reside in his chest, next to his own.

"I'll be fine, darling," I reassure him sleepily. "I'm used to taking care of myself. It comes with the territory of being the oldest and a quasi-mother to my younger brothers. But never a burden, Edward," I clarify. I never want anyone to think taking care of my brothers was ever a _burden_ to me. I'd give everything to ensure their safety.

"Never thought otherwise, Rose." His voice is solemn, that I can't help but automatically believe him – not that I think differently.

We stare at each other. He looks gloriously exquisite standing under the dim sparkle of the Grand entrance chandelier. The light seems to bounce off his skin even more beautifully than the dangling crystal. It is as if nothing could compare with his magnificence, his internal radiance.

"I think I should be off, Rose." It's funny how his statement sounds more like a question, as if he doesn't believe it himself. "Sincerely." And yet he still doesn't move. Our eyes refuse to lose the tremulous contact we share.

"Truly," I answer back, for lack of something to do, _to say_.

Without even being aware, Edward is suddenly in front of me and his fingers are delicately sweeping over my forehead, pushing back the curls which have escaped my hairdo.

I shiver, not from the exquisite coolness of his skin, but from the trembling of my heart from within. It's as if he is genuinely reaching within me and commanding out the emotions he wishes to see. It all sounds terribly idealistic, but I can't seem to help my uncontrollable, tumbling internal soliloquy.

I'm like his piano he plays and conducts so masterfully: helpless to his touch and playing the music he produces skillfully out of me. Edward is indeed the maestro of his subjects.

I lean my head back and slowly close my eyes. It's as if his presence too close to me all but blinds me. He burns so brilliantly before me.

"You are beyond lovely with your brothers, Rose," I feel whispered in my right ear where Edward's hand rests gently on my shoulder.

I want to push myself forward and wrap my arms around his trim waist. I can feel the longing so very deeply in my trembling soul. It's as if my entire being is tingling with the anticipation. But I hold back. There are some thresholds even I cannot exceed.

_Not yet_ . . .

"Just when I think you cannot get any lovelier, you go and surpass my absolute image of you: simply, exceptionally, beautifully . . ."

My breath stutters in my throat, and I wonder if it will ever unclog. I'm rendered immoveable with his unspoiled opinion of me.

I cannot help but now touch him. My hands shakily rise up and become fisted in his tuxedo jacket. I need something to hold onto, afraid without his steady presence I'd fall over stupidly.

Both of his hands come to rest on my respective shoulders. I find myself leaning into him, all but allowing him to hold me up.

We stand there; not speaking, hardly breathing, simply taking in the other. His sweet scent is as warm as his burning presence within me. It all encircles me effortlessly.

And then surely . . . _surely,_ my heart stops. With the gentlest of touches I've ever experienced, I feel Edward's lips touch my cheek, near the very corner of the right side of my lips. More than anything, I want to open my eyes, to be sure this is truly happening, but I cannot; for truly I'd be blinded by his sheer radiance.

With his sweet lips still scarcely touching my flesh with the gentlest of brushes, he whispers, "I shall be taking you and your brothers out tomorrow after next." It sounds more like a command more than anything, but I nod my head obediently. It doesn't even occur me to contest his request.

"I shall ring you and set everything up. No worries, right, Rosalie?"

Again, I nod helplessly at the soft brushes of his lips over my cheek. If I were to move a tiny inch our lips would finally, finally be connected. _Like intended. Please_!

His lips become dislodged from my cheek and I feel the tears slip unbidden from my eyes. I don't want him to go. I don't want to be without him. It's simply ludicrous, but my heart refuses to listen to logic.

"Sweet dreams, love." And then with one press of his lips to my forehead, he tenderly unclasps my fingers from his jacket, cups them around his cool cheeks momentarily before placing them at my sides.

Still my eyes remain closed at his exquisite kindness. I'm beyond lost.

I hear the front door close quietly behind him. As if given permission, I sigh roughly. I'm happily at a disadvantage where he is concerned. Again, I can't help but think how utterly gone I am in regards to my dear, dear friend.

Sweet dreams, indeed_, __love_ . . .

**. .**

Like my brothers, I'm speechless. Yankee Stadium is big, bright and boisterous laid before of us. Soon, however, the awe wears off from my young charges and their loud voices join in with the rest of the melee.

"Golly, Edward," Benjamin exclaims so happily. His bright smile, to me, is even more brilliant than the lights of the stadium. "Thanks a bunch. You're even more fantastic than Rosie claimed."

I act affronted as I pull my little love into my embrace. Now that he's fully awake, he seems to be embarrassed with my public display of affection. Serves the little scallywag right.

"Way to sell your favorite sister out!" I demand as I kiss his reddened face.

"Rosalie," he whines. I laugh at his agitation but allow him to gently push me away. He automatically wipes his cheeks before running to Edward's other side. It seems as if Edward isn't only my savior.

"You won't allow her to do that again, will you, Edward?" my darling asks so trustingly to my friend. It seems as if Benjamin is on the brink of hero worship.

"I'll keep her otherwise occupied. Gentleman's honor." I'm amazed at how solemn Edward is able to make his voice, as if this is the most sacred promise he'll ever make. I look to his new admirer and can tell he truly appreciates the gesture. He knows, instinctively, Edward isn't simply pandering to him.

"I have to agree with my brother . . . thank you for this," Henry says with more aplomb. He is more reserved than our youngest brother.

Like me – but to a lesser degree – mother has trained Henry on decorum, not embarrassing the family name and how to carry on as heir. Even father expects more from Henry, and he realizes it. But unlike mother, father knows Henry is still young and permits him some allowance.

"It was truly nice of you to go through all this just to make a special evening for us. But it's much appreciated." My brother reaches out his gloved hand and clasps with Edward. I want to cry a little for my brother's lost innocence, but I refrain. He had to grow up sometime. _He couldn't stay my little darling forever_ . . .

"With pleasure, Henry. Both you and Benjamin are extremely important to your sister. You're essential to her," he tells them tenderly.

Both of my darlings stare at me, Benjamin with mother's eyes and Henry with my own.

_I love you . . . both_, I mouth to them, not wanting to embarrass them saying it aloud.

Benjamin smiles widely in his unspoiled way before chatting wildly with Edward again, hopping up and down occasionally. Henry moves closer to me and casually grabs my hand. My eyes widen a little at the blatant physical display. He gives me a winning smile before mouthing his love back to me. My heart melts from out of my chest.

_Thank you, Edward_, I think silently. I couldn't have asked for a better surprise or affection from my darlings.

I raise our clasps hands and drape my arm over his shoulders. Our combined hands rest on his healthy beating heart. I can truly feel his hidden excitement in the heavy beating of his heart. Instead of demanding I release him from my hold, he leans into my side, allowing me to hold him for the time being.

I kiss the side of his head before giving my attention over to my other companions. Benjamin is still excitedly talking, not only to Edward, but also the other attendees. He tells anyone listening about Babe Ruth's stats, Lou Gehrig's June 3rd record of hitting four homeruns in one game, and how they're poised to take the pennant this year.

I sneakily reach over with my free hand and link it with Edward's. He quickly turns to me with a startled look. I can't help but smile hugely. It's beyond difficult to surprise him with anything.

"_Thanks, darling_," I mime to him. I gently squeeze his hand and wish momentarily I wasn't wearing gloves. I love the feel of his seeming always cool skin.

"_Not at all, love_," he returns.

As I go to dislodge my hand, thinking I've already taken enough liberty, he refuses to let go. He tightens his hold on our entwined fingers as he moves closer to my side.

A playful wink is given to me before his attention is pulled once again from me and given to Benjamin. I can let it go, for I have his hand in mine. I could ask for no greater connection.

"And Joe McCarthy has to be the best manager ever, Edward," my overly excited brother all but shouts. Both Henry and I shake with laughter at his exuberance, used to his over-the-top antics when he's beyond excited. _Him and his beloved Yankees_.

Edward, playing devil's advocate, starts debating with Benjamin. I can tell he is jesting with him. "Surely you must be wrong, young Ben. What about Miller Huggins? Managed the Yanks for eleven seasons; coached over the Murderers' Row; won six pennants under his management. Oh," he wails dramatically, "How the younger generation forgets."

Benjamin looks at Edward in alarm before he sees a smile starting to split over his lips. An adorable smile overcomes my little love's mouth. If I thought his hero worship of Edward was something before, goodness was I wrong. Benjamin now looks as if Edward himself hung the stars.

"You've just created a disciple for life, Edward," Henry opines jokingly from my loose embrace. But he's probably correct. When it comes to the Yankees, my youngest brother is eternally lost.

"Do you think the Yanks will win the pennant this year, Edward? They must be a shoe-in!" And on and on the two continue.

"Let's play ball," I say to no one in particular, but pull Henry a little closer to me and strengthen my hand around Edward's.

The stadium lights bath us in their happiness, heat and excitement.

**. .**

After shopping at 'Chock full o' Nuts', and explaining to my poor disillusioned, without-refined-taste friend why this specialty store is wonderful, he leads us to a somewhat secluded bench in Central Park.

Though the park is in somewhat disrepair, it still holds a beautiful splendor of its own. It's no longer the playground of the rich and elite. And though crime happens here periodically, I know with him I'll be safe.

Edward assists me as I become seated and munch happily on my salted treats. Mother doesn't allow me to eat candied nuts often, claiming it does terrible things to my figure. With her not present, I can enjoy them all the more.

In between delicate bites, Edward and I gab. We speak of nothing important, yet it all seems so filling.

"_Wasn't it delightful, Clarence's reaction to eating at the Russian Tea Room? I thought his eyes would have fallen out by the end of the night_."

.

"_Auntie shouldn't have made you play the piano for hours, Edward. I thought she had a stroke when she thought your talent grossly underrated. I did try to warn her. However, the old hen's jaw becoming unhinged was beyond comical. Even Stoic Henry couldn't keep his composure_."

"_Was there really a need to continuously rub it in, love? Your aunt would have to eat crow for the next year for as much as you rubbed it in_?"

"_Always, darling. When one is right over Auntie, the pleasure must be extended. It's too delightfully funny_."

.

"_You're Aunt Jacqueline and brothers are so wonderfully enchanting, Rosalie. I know and always hope you consider yourself blessed. But they are also blessed, for they have you in their lives_."

"_And you in mine, Edward_."

As we converse about this week and the fun we've had with my Auntie, brothers and occasionally Clarence, Edward turns solemn.

"More than anything, I wanted to thank you, Rose." I tilt my head to the side and study him under my lashes. My friend is so peculiar at times. I give him a gracious smile.

"What for, darling?" He's silent, looking at me and then at his clasped hands resting over his lap.

"For allowing me this time with your family. I know how precious little you are able to have with your younger siblings, yet you allowed me to encroach. It's the greatest gift you could have shared with me. And above all, for allowing me to see your greatest ambition in action."

"Edward?" I interrupt, confused.

"There is never any doubt in my mind at what a sensational mother you'll make, love. But seeing you with Henry and Benjamin, well, if any doubt existed, it would have been beautifully swept away. I can see how natural, almost intrinsic it is the ability you have to mother. It's so effortless. You should never let anything stand in the way of such sensation."

I'm all but at a loss for words, but would anyone expect any differently. It's seems to be our usual course of friendship.

"Effortless, you think?" I say, tying to be amused, but failing terribly. My arms are begging me to all but swallow him up in them.

"Not think . . . know," he refutes. His piercing gaze tells me so eloquently of his truthfulness. I truly need to take things lighter, especially for the sake of my fragile sanity.

"I may have some competition," I tease. "Benjamin seems to have replaced me." I give my wonderful companion my most threatening frown, but it has little to no effect; if the mirth in his eyes is any indication.

"_Oh, Rosie, Edward said this_ . . ." I mimic my youngest brother. "_Rosie, did you know that Edward is such and such . . . Edward thinks_ . . ."

Rich laughter meets my fair interpretation of Benjy. My friend seems to be so alive as laughter falls from his full, parted lips. _Oh, my_

"And here I thought Benjamin got his squeaky voice from your mother. Who would have imagined it was passed on from his sister?" Edward gives me an appraising look, as if he is inspecting my very core.

"You're lucky I hold you in such high esteem, future Dr. Edward Cullen. Otherwise I may have to simply stop conversing with you. It's quite impolite to make fun at the expense of your close friend," I explain haughtily.

My nose, of course, automatically rises in the air. It is almost a reflex action from too much practice. Edward's smile tells me he knows it's all in jest. Or perhaps (scarily) he knows that my being without him isn't feasible any longer. Either way, the smile remains on his gorgeous lips.

"On my honor, I shall endeavor to do better." He bows his head grandly. _And here I thought I was the overly-dramatic of our duo_.

"See that you do." He stares at me, surprised, as if he hadn't anticipated my reaction. He is beyond delightful. Suddenly the space between us is filled with our combined laughs. I cherish these moments the most.

"How were you able to get me out on the town without Clarence afoot, anyhow?" I was truly curios. It is most difficult to escape from his over-protective clutches.

"I simply asked him, love," Edward explains quite seriously. "He knows I make your safety, when we are together, the utmost priority. I'd never play fast and loose with your wellbeing." I want to shiver as his cool fingers barely graze over my left cheek, but resolutely refrain. I lean into his hand before he pulls it away.

These tender moments which pass between us are seared into my mind. I keep them in the most sacred place of my heart, directly next to the love of my brothers, father and future children.

"So, you're returning home, tomorrow?" I can only imagine he's asking to relieve some of the immense affection building between us. He must see the longing in my eyes. My handsome friend already knows the answer.

However, I give it to him anyhow. My head nods several times, displacing my cheek from his fingers. _Quite sad_ . . .

"And you, darling. When shall you be returning?" I inquire, realizing I don't know the answer.

"Not for several weeks yet," he all but whispers. An immediate frown mars my lips and forehead. I can all but hear mother's voice reprimanding me about premature wrinkling.

"But why?" I ask helplessly. I sound pathetic, but I can't help the desperate tone of my voice. I can't understand his delay in returning.

Edward's calm face turns into one of almost regret. I wonder if it is in reaction to my hurtful tone. I don't want to make him feel guilty in not returning around the same time as me. It is unfair to put such assumptions on someone who is only a friend, and more-so a lady on a gentleman. It is not proper.

As I go to apologize, his clear voice stops me.

"It has no correlation to you, Rose. I simply have to complete some field work for my major, with the summer term ending. Carlisle was gracious enough to arrange a two week clinic for me. I shall be assisting a highly qualified physician here at Cornell Medical Center. It's newly opened and Carlisle thought it a good idea to study for a little while outside of Rochester."

I nod my head, knowing without having to be told what kind of opportunity and privilege this must be. It still doesn't make the irrational sadness dissipate. I can't quite pinpoint when I've become so silly.

"I know you deserve it, Edward. You're marvelous, darling." Without thought or consequence, I grab his hand sitting in the empty space between us. I clasp it in both of my smaller hands and squeeze ever-so-gently. My eyes meet his over our combined hands. "Always marvelous." A small, meaningful smile graces my lips.

Around us, people are continuing to mill about, going on about their business. Though it seems as if things have slowed around us, it in fact hasn't. The world around me once again seems to have to remind me, I'm not the center of the world; contrary to the popular belief of the Madam, and sometimes even myself. My vanity is too well ingrained.

"I'll return before even missed, love. You'll see." Even with his reassurance, there seems to be doubt in his voice. It's as if he can read my weakness and the level of regard I've come to hold him in.

I know it isn't fair to him, having to live up to my needs and standards. Yet I can't seem to stop putting them onto him; unduly.

"I know, Edward," is all I say.

"Come, love," he bades me, pulling on my hand simultaneously.

With the sweetest relief, I fall willingly into his opened arms. I try and think, but being this close to him is overwhelming. Even with the erratic patterns of thoughts, I can't think of a time I've been this close. _Except for our initial meeting_ . . . _The closeness which started me spiraling_ . . .

My face finds shelter in the crook of his shoulder as his arms rest around my waist. It puts me in mind of when I comforted Benjamin after his night terror. I exhale loudly, and hold on tightly. It's probably a good thing Edward is so solidly built. _I hate to have to squish him_. A little, silly grin comes to my lips at the thought.

This time I helplessly shiver as his firm lips press into forehead. My lids fall ineffectually closed. The softness of his suit jacket rubs against my skin as I push closer to him. I don't want to be parted from him. _It's quite painful_ . . . _dreadful_.

"You shall still be missed, Edward," I inform him rebelliously, authoritatively. I don't care what my handsome Edward thinks in his pretty little head.

His light rumbles of laughter vibrate into my warmed skin lying on his shoulder.

"As will you, Rose. As will you." We both sigh, in what . . . well, I can't explain. _We just do. We just are. We are just . . . in this moment_.

Time slips away, our breaths come and go, the cool breeze of the afternoon becomes colder, the sound of footfalls make their journey home, yet all of it bypasses.

I know without having to be told, I'm warm sheltered in Edward's encircled embrace. I don't need to be told the sky is blue when I can see it for myself. I don't need to be told water is wet for me to feel it myself. _It just is_ . . . _Explanations unnecessary_.

However, with every good tiding, it comes to an end. Things need to be accomplished and experiences cherished. And this experience: beyond memorable.

Reluctantly I pull away, needing it to be on my terms for some odd reason. I push the peculiar sensation to the side and dislodge my face from Edward's strong shoulder. Though it's a grey day, the brightness temporarily blinds me. As my eyes adjust, I keep them closed and allow my heart to soak in the brilliance of the day. _To be remembered_.

"Shall we, love?" my copper-haired pillow asks. I giggle thinking of him as a fine, soft, desired goose-down pillow. I'd never want to lift my head from bed if he were to grace it. _Oh, my . . . must indeed move on_ . . .

"Lets," I squeak. Edward laughs at my flushed cheeks, but I give nothing away. I hold my head up high, even though I can now feel the heat flooding my neck.

Before I can even begin to place one foot in front of the other, my silly friend spins me around, to face him. I let out a light peep from the unexpected whirlwind.

"Edw -" I go to say, but am quickly quieted.

Cool fingers encase my cheeks. With my face sandwiched between his hands and his thumbs grazing over my cheekbones, I'm stunned senseless. My head is tilted back so I can look up into his face. I never realized how much taller Edward is then me. It never seemed to matter. _Still doesn't_.

I go to close my eyes, too overwhelmed with his resplendent presence, but his quiet pleading stops me.

"Thank you again, love," he speaks, clueing me into what is happening in his gorgeous head. I can only search his glorious face with my eyes. "For more than you could ever know. You've delighted me beyond measure, Rosalie. _Immeasurable, Rosalie_."

Stupid tears prickle my orbs, distorting his visage. Later I could say the tears had obscured my vision beyond sight, but it would have been a lie. I see him coming, descending even closer to my face. Nothing could ever mask the true attractiveness, the true sublimity of his countenance.

His eyes look even more amber, more solemn. They seem to be burning, the color is so immense, _so consuming_.

Every thought, every breath, every little nuance ceases to matter as my sometimes reoccurring dream comes to fruition. Edward's glorious lips are finally upon mine, and all I can feel is the pressure he exerts.

I know it beyond explanation, but as he moves his lips upon mine and his breathy sighs enter into my parted lips, I can taste his sweetness. _Sweet candied apples_.

I want nothing more than to lick at his lips forever.

Slowly, superbly and thoroughly Edward kisses me. I don't even fathom one part of my lips or mouth wasn't touched by his. I can only taste his flavor, breathe his shared air, be consumed by him.

Unhurriedly . . . gradually he finally pulls back and rests his forehead against mine. His breathing is just as uneven. A welcome reprieve. I can only hope I was as meticulous as him. If his closed eyes and uneven breaths are anything to measure, I'd say, _well done, indeed_.

I shiver from so many things as he slides his mouth from my cheek to my ear. "_Immeasurable Rosalie_," he calls me as his sweet oxygen ghosts over my unadorned shoulder and throat.

"_Endless Edward_," I counter breathlessly.

Deep, hoarse chuckles meet my words. His arms tighten around my waist as if he's never to let me go. Not that I'd ever complain in the least.

"More than you'll ever realize, love. More than you'll ever realize," he repeats before removing his lips from the shell of my ear, putting them to rest on my forehead. I strengthen my own hold on him and simply luxuriate in _our moment_.

_Immeasurable . . . _I think blissfully._ To be sure. _

**.**

* * *

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Author's Notes: Well, there you have it, lovely readers. THEY KISSED! Goodness, did I love writing this chapter. It is my favorite thus far. I can't even explain why, simply that I loved each and every segment. Researching the history for this chapter was a blast. Yes, I'm a history nerd.

I hope it was worth reading, even infinitesimally. O-o

Anyhow, thanks to the five people who reviewed. It always means so much. Now I must ask again, because I am that self-conscious, is it worth still continuing with the story? I put a lot into each chapter, but if it isn't capturing more people's attention, I don't want to continue. I sound really whiny, I know, but I love to know your thoughts: good, bad, whatever . . .

Thanks again to everyone. I hope you have a very Happy Christmas (those who celebrate) and wonderful Holiday Season to everyone else. I send so much love in a world where we can always give more! 3

**.**

[1] Joe McCarthy was the manager of the Yankees from 1931 to 1946. Under his tenure the Yankees claimed seven World Series Championships.

His amazing legacy wasn't established yet during 1932 when Edward took the Hale's to see the Yankees play. Until then Miller Huggins had been the definitive manager.

[2] Miller Huggins managed the Yankees from 1918 to 1929. He coached over Murderers' Row in the later part of the 1920's. He won three World Series and six American League pennants while in tenure.

[3] Murderers' Row is a term penned originally in 1918 detailing the batters' lineup. However it gained true prominence with the 1927 first six line up: Earle Combs, Mark Koenig, Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Bob Meusel and Tony Lazzeri.

[4] On June 3, 1932, while playing against the Philadelphia Athletics, Lou Gehrig became the first hitter in the 20th century to hit four homeruns in a single game. Barley missing an elusive fifth homer.

[5] Russian Tea Room opened in 1927 and became famous for those in the entrainment industry.

[6] In the early 1930's Chock full o' Nuts (which was a specialty store; specialty stores being very common in at the time) was converted to a coffee shop. Buying specialty nuts during the Depression became an extravagance.

_Updated: Sunday, 23 December 2012_


	15. Something You Never Had

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns everything recognizable in the land of Twilight. No copyright infringement is meant. FYI, there are about five more chapters to this story. Everything is outlined, just need to really organize it. Updates will be more frequent. Song Suggestion: The Killers - Be Still.

**Something You Never Had**

"_Until this moment, I never understood how hard it was to lose something you never had.__" – __Anonymous_

.~~.

Rosalie's POV – Middle of October, 1932

Hours upon countless hours my life have been spent staring into a shining piece of reflective glass; some of it by choice, but most by demand. Oft times, I wonder if it shows my true reflection.

Yes, I can gaze out, as if staring into a pool of water, and see my perfected-self staring back at me. She is quite beautiful, a stunning masterpiece truly broken from the mould. _Unlike any other_. But what part of her is real? Which parts are fabricated and which inherent?

Yet, like the reflecting glass, sometimes I feel what I am seeing is the opposite. When something written is held in front of a reflecting glass, it shows letters as if backwards. It's a distortion. _Why would my reflection be any different? Why would a shiny piece of glass show me a true distortion of myself? Why would it be any different for me than simple writing_? Questions, which answer, continuously escape my mind.

I think back before meeting Edward and the surety of which I knew these answers. Doubt, if any, was a fleeting afterthought before it even took root. There was no room or patience for such weakness. I was _the_ Rosalie Lillian Hale: socialite extraordinaire. _Prima Donna Assoluta_ . . .

Now, it feels as if I am a former rumination of her; I'm not the exclusively confident girl which was built to shine. I can still feel her inside me. I know she hasn't completely disserted me. It would be an impossibility. Too many years of instruction and training and lessons have gone into me. No matter how much I would ever want to drive her out, it wouldn't be accomplished; debutante Rosalie is ingrained. _Organs, tissue and soul deep_.

But even with her inside, there are things I didn't seem to truly consider or even think possible. Mother's instructions have always been taken with a grain of salt and little rebellions to keep me sane, grounded. Unbeknownst to her, the plans she created for me fortuitously fit into the grand plan I have for myself. It was all a cycle, to get me to where I truly wanted and instinctively needed to be. So I allowed her to take command, allowed her to flurry in her blindness.

Plans were made, contingencies thought out and private thoughts keep closest to my heart. Things were going well, things were well at hand, things were never to be knocked off course.

Yet, there was something I hadn't planned, hadn't foreseen. _Where is a fortunate-teller when needed? Not in existence_, I remind myself rationally.

What blindsided me isn't new, isn't something wholly unknown to men (and women alike). To some it is the most basic building block of life, the common interwoven thread of human race, the great unifier, something I never thought would apply to me in reference to the opposite sex. _Love_ was only meant for my family, (rarely) friends, and future children. No other scenario entered my equation. I don't understand why.

I can easily place this blame at my mother's feet. She taught me to respect, revere and follow my husband. "_Yes"_, I could have my "_own identity amongst the ladies of society_", but I was to take my "_husband's last name and represent him"_. No instruction was given on how to _**in reality love him**_.

But even with her taking the blame, it doesn't give me the practical knowledge or wisdom I need to press forward. How does one take these feelings and progress with life?

Falling into love isn't simply a metaphor. It's quite literal to one's heart. Like jumping from extreme heights, one's heart feels as if it soars and flies with indescribable exhilaration . . . elation . . . happiness.

One's heart and unseen spirit simply accelerates at being close to the object of one's romantic love. It's truly and wholly unlike anything ever experienced. Romantic love is the most free-falling and scary of all. It is unbidden, irrational and comes without warning. Yet once there, wants to be coddled and fulfilled.

With such instability, how does one proceed, especially if unrequited? These are questions and situations I'd never envision for my life. A husband was a means to an end. _Nothing more_ . . . _nothing less_ . . .

I took the things mother taught me, crafted my image, enhanced my roles, fortified my different masks, planned for a laid out future and set about attaining those goals. _Nothing more_ . . . _nothing less_ . . .

My love, my adulation, my happiness, my eternal joy was to be founded in my children: the little golden-haired little ones who took after me but also had a personality unto their own. _Nothing more_ . . . _nothing less_ . . .

Yet he became so much more and nothing less. Edward became the more I never knew existed or ever envisioned for myself.

I want to rile at the unfairness of the situation. Why wasn't my opinion initially taken into consideration? Why did fate seem to think I needed an amorous love when it was never sought after or desired? Why did that dreadful elevator have to stop working and trap me inside? Why did I have to be so weak? Why did I have to call for someone to help?

More questions with unavailable, unanswered outcomes.

And at the center of this upheaval is my dear friend, the person I come to revere and need, the person my heart beats happily for and the one I've _fallen into_: Edward. _Always seemed to be Edward_.

Now I stare into the mirror and dissect myself, tearing everything asunder to search for ambiguous answers. What does he see when he looks at me? _Truly looks at me_! Am I at all pleasing to him (sink deep, or much more)? Is he able to see the things I keep suppressed the most (my constant need of reassurance, the sad disdain for my mother)?

Sometimes, I think he sees me like no other, understands me like no other. And at other times, I feel as if he can't stand to look upon me, as if my very presence makes him want to continue running in the opposite direction.

These are insecurities and uncertainties that come especially with Edward. These are things I didn't plan for; stupidly on my part. They are things I'd never envision happening to me. Confusion isn't in the blueprint lines of Rosalie Hale, but are crisscrossed lines drawn all over Rose.

After New York City, I knew I fell into love with him. I couldn't lie to myself or evade myself any longer. All the longing, affection, adoration, and consistency in wanting him near me were there. I don't have a true reference as to what love entails. I can only go off my own assumptions and feelings. And I knew, after our kiss, with a surety, I had fallen. I also knew it wasn't a simple metaphor. My heart truly fallen for him; abundantly, wholly and unequivocally.

I left the city with the hope and new love of any person bitten by the enigmatic bug. Nothing could reach my heart at the levels and heights it soared. Even mother's constant disappointment and vocal frustration couldn't bring me down.

In Rochester, I carried on with my social obligations and schooling. I couldn't embarrass my father and I couldn't squander the opportunity he provided me to further my education.

Mother's dissatisfaction seemed to come with my not readily obeying her every command, being her little marionette. The stings had been severed with my need to now want to please someone else. I was respectful and courteous to her, but being the astute woman she is to my performance, she knew it wasn't the same. Something definite had changed.

Even in social gatherings I wasn't the same person. There were still fragments of my mask; I wouldn't share my new love with anyone else. It was something kept close to my heart and cultivated privately. Yet, I was genuinely more cordial with people, more approachable. The practiced and formal practiced lines were slightly released.

I floundered at times in public, unsure of this new, happily flourishing in-love person. I tuned out involuntarily, didn't go with the status quo of gossiping, didn't gladly and freely welcome gentlemen's attentions, and allowed other's their time in the spotlight. I didn't need it to shine so readily on me. I already had my own internal exquisite lighting shining from my new, tender love.

But even with all my social missteps and slight faux pases, I wasn't brought down. My love for Edward kept me so very buoyant.

My excitement kept the slow moving time from seeming to constrictive, _suppressive_. Day after day (for the next two weeks) I told myself Edward would return and things would be magnificent. And perhaps we could be in more situations where our lips could touch.

Our kiss had been absolutely stunning and everything beautiful a first shared kiss should be: _romantic, heart-stuttering, flush-enduring, sigh-worthy, never forgotten_.

And what had seemed like forever, the day of Edward's return finally came. I didn't know the next time I'd see him, having not set up a meeting beforehand, but I knew it wouldn't be long. Edward wouldn't make me wait so unfairly.

But as the days passed, and no word came, my new love and flourishing spirit began to dim. Uncertainty crept into my mind; _my soaring heart_ began to eat away. With one bite came another and another, until I was a former shell of my vivacious self.

The truly pitiful thing was that it didn't take long. A week, and the vibrancy to which I took flight, had me stranded on the ground. I was no longer a love-filled, flying-freely Amelia Earhart. My wings were clipped.

Seeing Esme had all but assured me I had reason to worry and truly doubt. Hers and Doctor Cullen's presence were a surprise. Mother usually knew the advanced guest list and filled me in accordingly. It wouldn't do to be caught unawares.

But seeing lovely Esme and the so very handsome doctor had me confused. Over the week I had tried to contact Edward, through phone and post. Yet every communication avenue went unanswered. I could have gone to their house, but even I had my limits and diminutive sense of worth.

Throughout dinner and after cocktails, Esme (and to an extent Carlisle) resolutely ignored me. Every attempt to get her attention was unnoticed. Like her brother, she was hurting me, and I didn't even know if it was intentional. _What had I done to receive such censure_?

Two times, when she had thought me otherwise occupied, I'd turn and catch her looking my way. Each time it seemed as if she was looking over my shoulder, but the sad and confused look on her face spoke volumes.

I knew the looks, if not directly aimed at me, were because of me. It had nothing to do with ego or being vain. I had seen that look before. It had been the prelude to something awful, something too pain-inducing, something at the time not understood. I was no longer disillusioned. Something was the matter with Edward and it didn't bode well for me.

After recognizing the look for what it was, I no longer sought her attention. I didn't want it in the slightest. I didn't want to know what was on my horizon. I didn't want to hurt, and I surely didn't want Edward out of my life. I had endured it before, and he had promised. _He promised_.

.

And so I sit and examine myself in the lying and distorted looking glass. I don't recognize myself. I don't know what I've become or where it might lead. I feel so unstable, as if someone forgot to tie my wandering boat to some dock. I'm lost and swaying from one dizzying swell to another.

I wonder, so helplessly, if there is something inherently wrong with me. There must be something Edward sees that I miss, that my mirror and reflection refuse to show me. _Why would they be so cruel as to keep the truth from me_? _To purposely blind me_.

My fingers begin to trace the outline of my perfect face. From forehead to jaw, eyebrow to lips; everything seems in perfect symmetrical balance. I trace the same patterns in my vanity mirror; nothing seems different, except the coldness seeping into my finger from the glass.

Perhaps that's what it is: the coldness which radiates from my reflected image, but not the corporal image.

My body can't help but regulate heat; the blood pumping sluggish through my veins won't allow it. It gives my body warmth, thus making me seem alive, _convivial_.

Perhaps, Edward knows differently. Though my skin is warm, he knows my inside to be frigid, like my mirror-image. He can see the damage I've created over the years, the disdain I've held so many people in, the coldness to which I've snubbed people with, the intrinsic hardness of my mask which will never fade and always be impenetrable.

He sees it so very clearly and there is no looking glass which distorts this vital truth to him. I'm beyond redemption. _Immeasurably_, like he explained after our seemingly only kiss. I tasted candid apples and he tasted darkness.

I turn from my hopeless likeness in disgust and move over to my window. It seems a while since the moon and I have had a conversation, since I've shared my deepest ambitions.

"Life was all but simple back then, old friend: be beautiful, find a husband, have my sweet little ones. End of list." I sigh softly, almost brokenly.

"But now, darling, I can't say."

I pause.

"It's not that I don't want to, but would have no idea where to even begin. But perhaps it's unnecessary. You see me at night and your counterpart by day. It doesn't matter when it's cloudy; I know the sun still sees me through the clouds."

I place my hand softly on my dewy window pane and stare up pleadingly at my silent, understanding companion.

"So what now, old friend?" I ask the moon.

No answer is forthcoming, but the twinkling of the fair moon tells me I already have the answer within.

Tears slip entirely too helplessly down my flushed cheeks. I press my stained flesh to the cool glass and sigh as it seeps into my hot skin.

"I don't want that," I whimper vulnerably, _sadly,_ willing the tears to cease. "I just want him. Edward and my little ones. It cannot be too much to ask."

Yet I know it is. I don't need my silent man on the moon to illuminate such intimate knowledge. It is inside of my mind already.

"I know," I answer, almost too choked up to whisper, yet alone continue. But I must. The truth must be spoken and realized.

"I g-go on. It can't matter how much I yearn for my new love, I have to go on. I had a plan before him, and there is a plan after him. The fact that I wanted him included seems all but irrelevant . . . _immaterial_."

My old friend continues to stare down at me. Goodness is it beautiful, enduring and comforting. Even on cloudy nights, I know my friend to be there. But tonight, it shines uplifting, _consolingly_ to me.

"Thanks, my confidant."

_That silent face of the moon_.

. . .

Few days later, Rosalie's POV

The wet pavement makes the clicking of my shoes sound muted. The smell of fresh air from rain and deep earth assault my senses. I close my eyes and take in the combination. I may be what is coined a city girl, but it doesn't mean I can't appreciate the smell of the enduring land.

Highland Park surrounds me as I continue on to my destination. Though the grass is wet and impossibly green, it doesn't lessen my need in wanting to run my bare feet over it. I can already imagine the tickling sensation.

I let the rare small smile grace over my lips momentarily before suppressing it. It's seems atypical these days that I ever find something to smile, yet alone, get excited about.

I go about my day before I allow the tremendous weight of my mask to fall at night. It's something I've kept private: the pain and dejection I feel. If there is one silver lining to all of mother's training and constant need for perfection, it's the readiness and easiness of being able to act as if all is well.

Those who know me best can see beyond the tight control – which thankfully is precious few. Father, bless him, has tried to suss me out of my retreat. But even his love and sweet concern cannot break through. I refuse to burden him any further.

However, these thoughts are irrelevant as I make my way to the predetermined destination.

I don't know why I even agreed to come. _Glutton for punishment_, I suppose. Or it must be the need for some kind of explanation, some kind of resolution to my never-ending questions.

I clutch Esme's letter tightly in my hand as I walk on. As I near the northeast side of the park, I climb the stairs halfway before sitting on the available bench. It's slightly wet, but I'll survive. There are things much worse than a wet posterior.

The lilac bushes which surround me are beautiful, even though void of blooms. I know when spring comes the little branches will be heavy with the sweet smelling flowers, something Highland Park is quite famous for. Now, they wait for the rebirth of an atmosphere more conducive to life.

I can't help but think of the irony. It seems as if my life is in some kind of holding pattern, waiting for something to pull me out; to come and rescue me. Until then, I wait and keep the pain to myself.

A cool fall breeze sweeps though the leafless trees and over to me. I quickly pull my fur around my thinning frame. Something mother is quite pleased about. She has been nothing but pleasant lately. Though I am not back to being her willing puppet, I do relent to her. It's easier, letting someone else have control.

"_Your figure is better than ever, darling. Imagine what it will do for you. You're more beautiful than ever, Rosalie. I can see it so clearly in our circle of gentlemen_," she gushed.

I wanted to tell mother to _shut up_, but refrained. The battle wasn't worth my flailing energy.

Available gentlemen thought my now hollowed look was mysterious, quite the challenge for them. Everyone wanted a piece of Rosalie Hale; especially this new mystic version.

Regardless, I throw the thoughts from my mind and come back to reality. Quick, precise, meticulous footsteps pull my attention to the left. I feel a hysteria starting to build inside me.

_Should have realized_, I giggle maddening inside my mind_. Why would I think otherwise?_

_Or perhaps you already knew_ . . .

"Aren't you a little too tall to be Esme?" The question is a little mean-spirited, but I was misled. _Where is the fairness in being deceived_?

My new companion simply stares at me with something akin to regret, as if deceiving me wasn't the most prudent of moves.

"I feared _had I_ asked you to meet with me, you'd decline. So Esme offered – quite unwillingly, mind – to make the request." His tone is low, as if speaking hurts his throat. I can't understand why. He's the one who wants nothing to do with cold, pretentious Rosalie.

I study my once friend and watch him wince. Perhaps the cold is also getting to him, too. My heart is pounding so loudly in my chest I'm surprised I can even hear him at all.

I give a sad smile, not really sure how else to react physically. I lose my false bravado. _Want to cry, but can't . . . want to disappear, but can't bear being without his presence_.

"Wouldn't have," I answer softly, truthfully, though I want only to be spiteful. Edward gives me a slightly confused look.

"I wouldn't have declined," I clarify, looking away, ashamed of myself and this need for him which I fear will never relent.

"Yes, well . . ."

We're both silent. I bow my head and bite my already puffy lips. My gloved fingers fiddle with the hem of my fine wool skirt.

"Rosalie?" Edward whispers much too softly near me. I hadn't even realized he's sat down. "Would you look at me?"

All I want to do is yell, about the unfair of his request. How could he expect such a thing from me? I want only a little closure, and perhaps some blessed peace.

"Can't," I finally mumble.

"Okay, that's more than fair, I suppose." His voice is too soft . . . too understanding. My skin starts to itch as the anxiousness in me rises. I can all but feel my blood sizzling with some sort of anticipation.

"Please, Edward," I beg pitifully, forgetting shame and propriety. The tears begin to cloud and sting my eyes. _It is wholly unfair_. "Just tell me what it is you wanted. Let's not go on pretending."

I can only hear him as he shuffles on the stone bench. The strength it takes to look at him refuses to come.

"What I w-want is to give an explanation." Him stuttering is so foreign. He's usually so sure in himself and his speech. Even the richest of men couldn't hope to emulate his class; it's inscribed into every inch of his beautifully pale flesh.

"What if I don't w-want one," I counter, willing my voice to not fail me.

"If it is what you wish, Rosalie," he offers courteously.

And finally . . . finally, the strength, which has thus adverted me, comes roaring into my veins. Instantly I stand up and look at him.

Still he is so stunningly handsome. How is it even fair? He shouldn't be able to have this ability over me. Why can I not be free?

But when I look at him, it is evident he is also suffering. I don't know to what degree or even why, but I _can see_ the pain radiating from within his dark, dark amber eyes.

The righteous anger dissipates almost as soon as it comes. The need to tear into him turns into plain and utter wretchedness.

"It isn't what I want, Edward," I tell him agonizingly. The first tear falls from my overflowing eyes. "The furthest from what I'd want."

Something lighter comes into his eyes at my explanation, but it isn't to stay.

"However . . . what I want doesn't seem to matter much, Edward. That you can toss me away so carelessly, without even explanation beforehand, shows my worth to you." The intensely painful look is back on his handsome face. Instead of detracting, it adds to his appeal. _Broken, fallen angel_.

_Want to cuddle him_ . . .

"You're so very wrong." I stare askance, disbelievingly. "It's because of your worth, Rosalie," he goes on.

A mirthless little giggle escapes from my lips already parted in disbelief. I wonder if it sounds as hysterical to him as it resonates in my mind.

"Truly, love, I jest you not."

"Don't!" I command, startling both him and myself. It comes out more forcefully than even I could anticipate. "You don't have the privilege of calling me such." My sad tears are replaced with angry ones. I don't even try to wipe the salty water tracks.

"Alright," he concedes. His fingers work over the bridge of his nose as if trying to release some built-up pressure. I could relate so very well. My hands beg to clasp in my hair and pull until all the hurt recedes from my body.

I slowly lower myself until seated on the bench again, making sure to leave as much open space between us. My fingers knit together as they settle into my lap. My shoulders are hunched as I try and ward off further ache.

"What happened, Edward?" I whimper heartbreakingly. The need to know is eating a hole in my belly. The pain becomes almost too much to bear at night. "Between the City and coming home, I can't understand or fathom what could have h-happened. What possible reason could there be? What terrible, unforgiveable sin did I commit?"

He is silent, as if contemplating my question; but I can't take the silence.

"What, Edward?" I demand angrily.

"Nothing, Rosalie," he relents. It's his turn not to look at me as I stare at his side profile. Like me, his body is hunched over, as if trying to protect himself from any danger. His defeatist and almost submissive posture is so out of place on him. I feel no triumph in his bent over position.

"That can't possibly be the truth," I argue. "Something about me had to displease you so. One moment we are close to something I can't even describe, Edward . . . and the next, we are barely even strangers. Is that all it takes, Edward, three measly weeks for our friendship to fail?" I scoff. "Goodness, you must have thought me annoying and awfully silly."

"It is the truth." His fingers drop from his nose, but he doesn't straighten his posture. His fingers now wrap tightly around the edge of the stone bench.

I stay silent, allowing him the time to finally explain his disappearing and ignoring act.

"It is the truth," he repeats, yet even more quietly. "You've done nothing wrong, or offensive! It comes back to my own problems, my own insecurities, my own reclusiveness. Not every decision I make is a reflection on you, Rosalie."

My hand rises to my mouth as I try to stop the sob wanting to tear from my throat. I quickly turn from him, begging him silently to not touch me. I curl into myself as my face becomes buried shamefully in my hands.

This ache inside of me is all but unbearable. I don't know how I'm able to stay upright.

I knew he thought me vain. It is only logical. Even I know how vain I can be; him denying such is a lie. But even above my failings, I thought he knew me better, understood me better.

Tentative fingers start to touch my hunched back, but I can't stand it. My flesh breaks out in sharp gooseflesh.

I twist away from his outstretched hand. I can't bear to have his comfort, especially when he removed it already from my life. His mixed reactions are so unfair!

"This is what I always feared, yet I allowed myself to continue."

I wonder who and what he is ranting about. It makes no sense to me. _He feared involvement with me? With anyone of the opposite gender_?

"You may not think it or see it, Rosalie, but I am different than you. That's not to say I'm better or superior, simply different. You can't possibly begin to contemplate the difference." His voice sounds exaggerated beyond reason. I want to turn back to him, but cannot.

"There is a reason I'm reclusive, not withstanding my dislike for all the social hierarchy nonsense. I yearn to explain it better to you, but cannot."

I finally turn around to study his face. I don't want him to see how wrecked I must surely look, but all vanity is overridden. He cannot possibly think I'd believe such quote on quote _nonsense_.

"You must be jesting, Edward? Do I truly look so naïve to you? Am I so gullible as to believe a difference in lifestyle would tear our friendship asunder?" His face shows some of his surprise, as if I can't grasp the excuse he's trying to feed me. I could feel even more insulted, but cast it aside.

"If that were the case, Edward, why even begin to start a relationship? Why meet me in the library? Why talk to me? Why worry? Why take care of me? Why teach me? Why even make up after our initial falling out? Why . . . why . . . why, Edward? Why couldn't you have let me be?!"

I take the time to breathe deeply again, having dispelled all my air supply. My heart is pounding too loudly in my ears. My skin is uncomfortably warm, and all I want to do is shed myself of these uncomfortable clothes. They are agitating my skin beyond reason. Or perhaps, it's the indefinable emotions sweeping inside, just under the flesh.

"Believe me, Rosalie," he starts, his face crumples even more sadly. It is as if each confession he tells me is taking some part of him. "I wanted to."

_Goodness, and just when I thought nothing could wound me as much. _

_He never wanted any part of me!_

I nod my head, understanding finally ripping through my heart. My fingers entwine painfully with each other and my toes curl in my shoes. Perhaps if I hurt them enough, the throbbing inside of me will somehow relent.

When I think Edward done, with his simple yet comprehensible explanation, he does me the disservice and continues.

"If I hadn't initiated our friendship, if I let you alone, none of this would be happening. But for whatever reason, I ignored all my correct instincts, going against grain I represent. There are no explanations I could give you, Rosalie, for continuing on."

I give a mirthless chuckle, not out of anger or strife, but fatigue. _Many things could have been avoided . . . or perhaps not. Fate is known to be cruel_.

"You know, Edward, I thought you close to infallible. It is rather silly of me, _hmm_?"

He shakes his head, but I ignore the gesture. It seems almost too late for his denial.

"Snobbish, pretentious Rosalie falls for unapproachable, unrelenting Edward. And goodness, does she fall. But perhaps it was fate. She finally receives a dose of her own medicine. She didn't truly know what it meant to hurt people, you see, because she thought herself above the simpleton fray. She is so very wrong. Fate proved her wrong. Fate sent punishing Edward to show how infallible _she really is_. But even with the agonizing lesson she is learning, Rosalie would have endured it all . . . all because of her falling in love with unseeing Edward."

I don't yell or scream at him, but explain things so tiredly. It's all so overwhelmingly sad.

I give my silent friend the saddest smile of all – because this is the end. I have nothing left to give – not that he would even want anything from me.

"It wouldn't have mattered to me, Edward. Anything you thought the matter with you or which separated us wouldn't have mattered. I know it sounds so terribly clichéd, but love conquers all. Or so I believed. But not always, hmm, Edward? You brought out that belief in me, and you also sent it away. I guess I should thank you for that."

He turns his beautifully shameful face from me and stares at the wet grass. I wonder what is going on in his mind.

"Not everything, Rose," I hear whispered. I turn sharply and stare at him unwaveringly.

_To think, he would question my commitment to him! I haven't been the one to leave him in doubt . . . quite the opposite in fact_.

"There is something you've wanted before me; so very intently, so very desperately."

_Of course! . . . You told him so, Rosalie_, I remind myself. I feel so out of my skin, so uncomfortably unpleasant.

Without even having to ask, Edward answers my unspoken remembrance.

"Seeing you with Henry and Benjamin, Rose, simply sealed up the truth for me. Never have I seen someone so made for the role of motherhood. Like I've told you before, it is so intrinsic in you. As if it's woven into every fiber of your being. You want someone who will love you unconditionally as you love him or her with your entire might."

I smile wistfully at his beautiful explanation of my fondest, ardent wish.

"And there is nothing shameful about that, love. It is the very essence of your existence: to procreate the next generation. Some do it out of obligation. But you, Rose, simply would do it out of unfathomable, bottomless love. I saw it so irrefutably with your siblings. You long for motherhood like nothing else."

I concede to him and nod. It is something I want, something I desire so very much. But I can't understand his reluctance in wanting to peruse a relationship with me. _Unless_ . . .

I bury my shaking hands in my disarrayed waves. It's falling out of the pins anyhow.

"And this is a determent to you, my wanting to have a little one?" I can only stare as he confirms my question.

"But not how you would assume?" My interest is piqued more than at any time this afternoon.

I tilt my head as I study his sorrowfully handsome face. "How?" I ask softly, without rancor.

"In the simple fact that it's an impossibility. My body won't allow me to procreate."

My eyes widen in shock as my mouth falls open. I know I must look rude and offensive, but I'm so taken aback by his admission.

"So you now know one of my greatest secrets, Rosalie," he tells me matter-of-factly. It doesn't matter how stoic he tries to pretend to be, I can see the pain from his confession.

"I'm terribly sorry, Edward," I say inadequately, knowing it won't change anything. My heart is bleeding for him, and I know he'd hate that . . . _my exceedingly self-reliant, stoic friend_.

"Not at all, Rose. Nothing you or anyone else says or does can change the outcome. We all have our afflictions in this life, and infertility is just one of my many misfortunes." Again, I can see beyond his front. There is real, awful pain radiating in his soul. Yet, he refuses to share it with me. _Again . . . he keeps it all to himself, unwilling to share_ . . .

"So, you see, we being together would never succeed. Something vital to you would become an impossibility. I can't be that person which takes it away, _love_. Many things I've done in this life are already unforgivable. I couldn't bear such a sin."

Without consequence to myself or the unknown future, I reach out and grab Edward's hand. I'm still hurting so very much, but so is he and I can't bear to see it.

Lightly I pull on our clasped hand, and surprisingly he relents and comes to me. The space between us is erased.

I direct his heavy head to my shoulder as my left arm encircles his firm back. My right hand cards through his untidy bronzed hair.

I forget about my own pain as I take as much of his as possible. My problems seem almost inconsequential to his. But in the grand scheme of friendship and companionship, I share his pain. I share his problems, and I take them unto myself willingly. _Glutton for punishment, I am_.

"I can't do that to you, love. I can't," he continues to repeat brokenly into the skin of my neck. I simply let him talk as I caress the side of his face and into his hair.

How long we sit here is unknown to me, and though the bench is terrible hard, I ignore the discomfort. The rest of my body is smarting enough to override the numbness in my legs and back.

When he finally quiets down, I take the time to still my hand. I rest it lovingly on his un-giving cheek.

"What if it were my decision, Edward?" I broach carefully. I don't want to upset him, but he also needs to know I have my own choice and accountability.

Ever-so-gently, my sad companion pulls away from me, but not out of the comfort of my arms. His face is mere inches from my own and his breath is sweet as it sweeps over my skin. My thumb automatically brushes over the underside of his darkening eyes. They seemed to be bruised, as if he hasn't slept in days.

He sighs sorrowfully as his hand in turns reaches up and touches my face. I lean into his gloved fingers. _How I wish to feel his bare hand on me_.

"It isn't, love." The words which slip from his parted lips tear the little hope I have left asunder. Like so many other things about me, Edward seems to know them so inherently, sometimes even better than I seem to comprehend them.

"You wanting to be a mother is definite . . . _infinite_. As long as you breathe and as long as your heart beats, you'd give up everything for the chance."

I don't want this to be the truth. I want to scream at him, to demand he stop telling me falsehoods, but I simply can't. But even with this knowledge, I slowly shake my head in denial.

My friend becomes too blurry as my eyes fill and then spill over with fresh, useless tears. _They accomplish nothing_! They run desolately down my face. My hot cheek becomes even more cuddled in Edward's hand as the truth of his eloquent words surrounds me.

Before I can crumble on the bench and truly hurt myself, Edward brings me into the shelter of his arms. I know nothing but my vigorous pain, the absolute realization of my dreams shattering and my lovely darling consoling me. My body shakes with sobs and with the truth of what is about to descend upon me.

More than anything, I wish I could be _Edward's Rose_ forever. I wish we could have that beautiful ending which my dreams love to torment me with. I wish and aspire for the impossible. For one dream comes without the other.

But as I've come to learn in the last couple hours, some things are truly impossible, unattainable. _Nothing to be done about it_, no solution to rectify the crippling pain radiating inside me.

With all the courage, pride and elegance I posses, I peel myself from Edward's arms and let them fall away from me.

_Too painful_, my heart revolts. _Return . . . return_.

I straighten my shoulders and push my hair from my smarting eyes. Edward continues to watch me wearily, but I cannot offer him anymore comfort. I'm all out.

Shakily, I take the leather glove off of my hand. My left hand rises until my fingers are resting on my lips. I press them firmly into my skin before removing them. With the gentlest of care, I now place them over Edward's. He tilts his head to the side, as if gravity is too much for him to contend with. I can empathize with him readily.

I allow my fingers–my adorned flesh–to linger before they slip softly from his parted lips. A lone tear falls from my right eye. I refuse to let anymore slip. There are some things I can still control, and I refuse to be a victim to my body for long. It can have its way later tonight; in dark privacy.

"I do, you know," I can't help but saying. It's my one rebellion. Understanding blossoms on his devastated visage. . . . _love you_ . . .

Edward's entire body looks as if it will crumple at any moment. I feel as if my soul is demanding to leave my body, since I refuse to hold him up. My arms start to reach out, but I snap them to my side.

_It's done_.

Rosalie Lillian Hale is emerging, not in her full glory, but to a lethal extent. She's what I need to proceed. To carry on with my life, sans Edward.

"It is my right and prerogative to leave first," I explicate resolutely. "I have to survive, Edward! It is my only way forward." I want to add there was a chance for something else, but refrain. We both know our ultimate choices.

His fingers wrap once again around the edge of the stone bench. It looks as if they want to demolish it to tiny bits.

"I shall be leaving for a time," I hear him murmur. More parts of me are torn to shreds, but I am Rosalie Lillian Hale . . . _nothing and no one is more beautiful_.

I nod my head in understanding and refuse to bite my lip in weakness. I squeeze my toes again and will this pain to leave me. There is no purpose to it and nothing is to be accomplished with the weighing tribulation.

"The clinic went well, and I was asked to extend my time."

"I knew you'd be a success, Edward," I say softly, graciously. My heart knows no survival it would seem.

His wobbly smile greets me only fleetingly before disappearing. It's enough to almost floor me.

I gird my deepest strength. The time has come and already left.

"Take care, won't you, Edward?" I need some assurance he will be fine. It seems as if I can't leave without it, as my feet refuse to move.

"I shall, Rosalie. I promise." And once again, he seems to understand why my mind, body . . . feet, need to finally leave.

Our eyes hold for a moment. So much passes, but it remains unspoken. _All's silent_.

Later, I won't be able to even explain or extrapolate how I was able to turn about-face and leave him. But somehow I do.

My mask falls into place with practiced routine. I'm scared at how easily it comes to me, but I take what I can. Beggars' cannot be choosers. It is my only saving grace.

My back is painfully ramrod straight as I push myself, forcefully, to leave _him_ behind. I shall survive because _I am Rosalie Lillian Hale_. She bends down to no one, not even her counterpart's most ardent desire. _Stupid, silly Rose_, she scorns. _Utterly weak and mortifying_. _No more, _she whispers silkily_. _

She reins over every aspect of her life and hardly anything is beyond her control. With the little remaining audacity inside me, I cling to her. I've never been more grateful for her emergence in my life.

_Very smart_, she compliments.

And if not for the mask descending on me and giving me the boldness I need, I would have surely fallen at Edward's parting remarks.

I simply pretend not to hear or even contemplate as I continue on. Head held high and walls impenetrable.

"_I do too, you know,_" bounces off my public persona and back onto my unattainable Edward.

". . . _love_?"

It settles sadly and unfulfilled in the breeze at my back.

.

* * *

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Author's Notes: Wow, took a lot out of me. I know, "What the Hell!" many of you are thinking, but it was always planned. How could Edward watch Rosalie, so beautiful with her beloved brothers and not see her wanting that indefinitely? He couldn't. No matter what he may want, he wants Rosalie's happiness more. Seeing her in action with her brothers was the cherry on the cake. The need to put her above himself was inexorable. But sigh . . . I know. I teared up writing and editing this chapter.

Anyhow, I wanted to thank all those who reviewed last chapter. They were so amazing and wonderful. I could never thank you enough. I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday season. Mine was plagued with traveling, getting a nasty flu, then pink eye. But it was all done with my wonderful family . . . LOL.

If you have the time, I'd love to know your thoughts (mad as they may be *wink*). All are always welcomed and appreciated dearly.

_Updated: Tuesday, 12 February 2013_


	16. Assurance of Tomorrow

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns everything recognizable in the land of Twilight. No copyright infringement is meant.

**Assurance of Tomorrow**

"_Progress is the activity of today and the assurance of tomorrow__" – __Ralph Waldo Emerson_

.~~.

Rosalie's POV – Last week of October, 1932

I've heard about numbness, and being the victim of it. I know the definition and the symptoms associated with it, yet to experience it personally is an entirely different matter.

There is nothing I can think to truly reference it to. It's as if everything, every emotion is taken from one's body, and the only thing one feels is apathy. There are no highs to one's feelings and also no lows. Even if one wants to feel something, one cannot. He or she is stuck in a state of indifference. Quite scary in its own right.

This torpid response is all my body now seems to register. I find no happiness in my life, only a monotonous expansion of time. Like a motion picture playing before my eyes, I see only in black and white; color seems to have drifted from my spectrum. It doesn't even outline the edges of my vision.

At times, I want to cry, but find I can't. Other times, I want to scream and throw some kind of self-indulgent tantrum, but also can't. The only response I can honestly muster from within is tedium: whether at some social obligation, or at home finishing some take-away assignment from university. It is all the same and nothing amounts to anything special.

Father's face lines with worry when he observes me. He tries to engage more than dull answers from me; I give to him the same as I do everyone else. Although mother would like me more responsive to available gentlemen, she cannot truly complain because I don't embarrass or give fodder for gossip. My reputation stays clear and my manners impeccable.

_What does it matter if none of my fake, yet highly believed bravado isn't really felt_? Society wives and rich young men cannot tell the difference. They still only see my immense beauty, with another added element. It is unattainable, yet desired. The hallowness inside me seems to call to them, begging them to discover its sources.

The comments unveiled . . .

"_Goodness, Rosalie is looking so worse for wear. Could you imagine looking so dead-eyed? She's even more snobbish than ever_ . . ."

.

"_I thought you beautiful before, Miss. Hale, but I must confess myself incorrect. Your beauty rivals everyone here_ . . ."

"_Thank you_," I replied, evenly . . . somewhat graciously - factitious.

.

"_Lillian, whatever regime do you have your gorgeous daughter on? It is doing wonders_." Mother looks coolly at her inept companion. It is as if I am not even present.

"_Would you like to rephrase, dear_?" Mother tilts her head as she scrupulously studies her companion.

"_Well . . . what I meant was she's even more beautiful than normal. One could never refute your daughter's beauty, Lillian. She sets the bar_."

"_Oh, dear, you are too kind_," mother cooed with false praise. This woman's opinion really meant terribly little to her. Her companion, on the other hand, breathed a sigh of relief. She wouldn't be on Lillian Hale's bad list.

.

The only criticism which truly matters to the Madam is the ultimate Queen Bee in our high society: Mrs. Royce (Constance) King. She is the premier elite.

_Oh, one would never want to upset the most important wife in society. One never knows what gossip she could 'accidently' slip to her husband over a casual dinner_.

It is all terribly moot to me anyhow. Uncaring is one welcome side-effect to being numb.

I sigh heavily as I turn the page to my journal. Many thoughts and emotions I have written. If found, it wouldn't really matter; everything is written in vagueness and generalities. That doesn't preclude me from hiding it beneath the loose floorboards under my bed.

"Rosalie, darling," I hear mother calling me. Her voice is sickly sweet and I know that to mean only one thing: she wants something from me, which I'm usually reluctant to give. _Not that I refuse her often_.

I'm a little confused as to what she's even doing home, especially when I know it to be her day of selfless giving of herself to the community. _As if that were wholly true_. "_Appearance must always be kept, Rosalie_," mother's never forgotten words echo in my mind.

Cautiously I put my journal in its original hiding place and quickly make my way to the vanity. With quick inspection and a little added rouge, I qualify myself ready for the Madam.

As I make my way downstairs and into the formal lounge, I see mother holding something which looks like a metal container. I'm now rendered beyond confused.

It is funny, thinking how queer it looks in her elegant hands.

"Yes, mother?" I ask politely as she sees me approach. Her firm eyes take in every inch of my appearance, as I already knew. Thankfully, I had the forethought check before coming down.

"About time you arrived, darling. It doesn't do well to keep people of importance waiting." _Another life lesson to never religiously pass on to my children_.

"Sorry, mother. I wanted to make sure I looked presentable before venturing down. You did request, after all, I wear my white silk organza dress today." She nods her head, as if she forgives my lack of manners. _Why the dress? . . . her reasons are beyond my understanding or even worry_.

"No matter. Here," she says – always evenly – as she pushes the canister towards me. I can only give her a curious look. I don't know what she'd have me do with it. She is acting most peculiarly. "It's to be taken to your father."

I still give her a confused look. I can't fathom what she'd have me do. To my immediate recollection, I can't remember father taking in his lunch.

"Don't crinkle your brows, Rosalie." _Could her tone sound anymore long-suffering_? . . . as if she's been telling me things since birth and I have yet to grasp the simple concept.

This time I don't apologize. It would be in vain, anyhow.

"This needs to be taken, Rosalie. I simply don't have the time, seeing as my schedule is already pressed." I barely just refrain from rolling my eyes. "And seeing as your father worries – completely unnecessarily, mind you – this will give him the occasion to look over you properly. He shall observe his worry is all for naught. You are quite well, aren't you, Rosalie Lillian?" mother questions.

Her head tilts to the side, as if studying me intently. Her tone however says it isn't really a question, so much as a command.

_Be well, Rosalie . . . Convince your father . . . or else_.

"Yes, mother," I answer like the mindful person I'm raised to be. "Is there anything else you require of me? I shan't keep father waiting too long."

Her gentle laughter tinges on my nerves. I still feel numb, but underneath is a thin layer of common annoyance for this woman who birthed me.

"Simply be on your best behavior, _Rosalie, dear_. This is your father's place of work, after all, and appearances must always be kept. One never knows which way the wind shall blow; when fortune will rain supreme." Her cryptic words bring no comfort to my unfeeling self, only foreboding.

"Fortunately, you look wonderfully lovely this afternoon. I'm pleased to see how much effort you've been putting into your appearance and etiquette lately, daughter. You have pleased me so. Now . . . along you get and remember, Rosalie, don't disappoint me. Much work has been put into you."

She gives me a sickly sweet smile, which actually shakes me to the core, before giving me the once over again and quitting my sight.

Shudders run along my skin and rattle the metal container in my hand. My glamorous appearance as of late has absolutely nothing to do with her and more to do with my flailing self-esteem.

It's as if I needed to go back to my roots, to the person I was before Edward. There is a sort of comfort and safety in such routine. Much effort has gone into recreating Rosalie again. It's been easier than anticipated. Perhaps she is never far beneath the surface as I would like. But in my instance, beggars cannot be choosers. Simply ask the people standing in governmental-subsidized bread lines.

Regardless, I find my strength and resolve in the Socialite Extraordinaire. It's terribly paradoxical she'd be my saving grace.

No matter how much I would wish it otherwise, I find there is life beyond the magnanimous Edward Cullen. And, I refuse to be brought down into utter darkness. My greatest aspiration survives beyond _him_. _New life simply waits to flutter in my womb_.

. .

As I approach father's office, and pass his less-than-pleasant assistant, I can hear him speaking with someone.

"Yes, in ten minutes time shall suffice," he says before hanging up his telephone. I wonder if the person to whom he was speaking with can hear the tightness in his voice. I truly doubt it. Father is nothing if not wonderfully professional.

I round the corner and see my father swiping his large hands over his tired face. A little concern enters into my constant numbness, but not enough to truly register. I just know it's there, lurking.

I enter my father's plush office and wait for him to take notice of me.

A bright smile takes over his face as his eyes meet mine. I know myself to be my father's daughter. He loves me endlessly. Nothing I desire is out of his reach.

_Well, that which he knows of,_ I remind myself. Edward is beyond retainable.

"Hello, sweetheart," he greets me as he readily stands and makes his way around his large mahogany desk. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" His arms wrap around me and for a moment I can see that small girl with the long golden hair. She's in my mind's eye, so terribly happy and innocent.

"I've brought you lunch," I state obviously. After I return my father's hug and plaster on my fake smile, I hold up the metal container holding his lunch.

"Lunch?" father inquires. The surprised tone of his voice surprises even me. Mother did send me here after all, and she never does anything without express purpose. What it is, I can't even figure out as of now.

"Yes, mother said you would need it." I give him the only answer I know.

The confusion quickly leaves his face and is replaced with a grim firmness. Again, I'm taken aback by his quick reactions. I can only assume father must know mother's purpose in sending me here and is awfully annoyed by it.

"Thank you, darling. It was very thoughtful of you to have come. Has Clarence accompanied you?"

He doesn't even need to ask. With the economy being bad, and many indigent people about town, it is not terribly safe for someone of my station to be walking around unaccompanied. Even if the danger was minimal, father would still insist I have a trusted someone of the opposite gender watching over me.

I give my worrying father a rare, but _real_ smile. I know he can tell the difference from my counterfeit one. Thus his ever present concern for me.

"Of course, daddy," I reply sweetly . . . too innocently. "Would you expect otherwise from me?"

My father momentarily gives me the patented "placating" look before shaking his head and laughing robustly. It causes me to feel tiny sparks of happy-gratification. I know it isn't much, but the feeling is enough.

"You are just what the tedious day ordered, my daughter."

"I'm available for lease between the hours of one until two, Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Gold only, I'm afraid," I jest. It is difficult for me to spare the effort beyond my numbness, but my father is worth the small sacrifice.

"A tough bargain you sell, daughter. But alas, I get the honor of your company for free."

"That you do, sir," I reply respectfully, allowing the corners of my lips to turn up ever slightly.

The ringing of his phone breaks the pleasant mood and causes me to start for a moment. It is quite unexpected, not to mention shrill.

"It would seem business awaits me, sweetheart. Shall I walk you out?" My father is nothing but a gentleman and I know I come before his probably important phone call.

"It's no trouble, father. I wouldn't wish to inconvenience you." He goes to open his mouth, in what I know to be a refusal of my statement, but I give him a soft smile.

_You could never be an inconvenience, my daughter_, I can hear my father argue in my mind.

"I shall be fine. You know, I've been told I learned to walk on my own at quite an early age." My father laughs again at my dry humor.

"Cheeky daughter," he mumbles through his deep mirth. "Off you get, then. If you happen to see your mother before I, tell her thank you for the lunch and we shall indeed be discussing her motivations." I can only nod in acquiesce.

"I love you, baby girl," father all but whispers my childhood endearment. It is something only really said at home amongst family. However, I know he is reassuring me. _He isn't peeved at me_.

"Love you, too, daddy."

And with a little kiss blown to him I take my leave. I can already hear him picking up the phone and retrieving his no nonsense business tone.

As I pass his assistant, I give her a haughty look. The nerve of her . . . to think she could ever stop me from seeing my father. His assistant truly needs to learn her place. _No one here can compete with my beauty_, I repeat silently the long-ago remembered mantra.

I shine in all occasions.

. . .

As the darkened clouds roll on by overhead, my fingers delicately play with the petals of roses. I wonder how the light of my moon-friend would bounce off of them. They are quite a stunning shade of lavender and the softness of the petals is almost comparable to my own skin.

It's quite funny, though, I never really preferred roses. It always seemed terribly clichéd to me, having part of my name resemble said flower. Yet, it has never really stopped gentlemen from sending them to me, most likely thinking how clever they are in sending me _roses_ . . . I can't help but laugh at the absurdity.

These lavender beauties are different. How, one may ask? Funnily enough, it has nothing to do with the flower itself but the sender.

However unexpected, my surprise doesn't stem (no pun intended) from the roses but from _him_.

When my eyes first landed on the delivery, I knew them to be from Edward. Somehow, in some way, fate had smiled down upon me and decided to grant me all of my fondest wishes. My now former beloved had come to his senses; everything he had confided in me had been a mistake.

"What is the meaning of these, Rosie?" my father's voice had broken through my bafflement.

Even stranger still was mother's silence. It's something she isn't really known for: not having an opinion on a subject.

My hands shook as Ms. Rhodes placed the arrangement in front of me.

"Here you are Miss. Hale." I could only nod my thank you, not being able to find my voice and all.

Both mother and father came over and also examined the bouquet. Father's countenance was one of consternation and mother's of utter delight.

"Thirteen Roses? Why are there thirteen and not a dozen?" my father inquired.

"Honestly, Rich! Have you no knowledge of flowers and their meanings." Mother's smile quickly disappeared with father's stern frown. She knew not to trifle about any longer. Father may be affable, but even he has his limits, and they aren't to be tested.

"Thirteen roses signify a secret admirer. The color Lavender implies enchantment."

Father then turned from mother to me. He wanted answers and I had none to give. Even the head of our family wouldn't know about Edward. He was my secret to keep.

I raised my shaky hands and retrieved the little linen cardstock envelope. Everything about the display spoke of wealth.

My mouth dropped open with each word my eyes took in as my hand covered my surprised, parted lips.

_Rosalie Hale –_

_I know these flowers fail in comparison to your exquisiteness, but a gentleman can only try. Please accept this paltry offering as an introduction to myself and a splendid thank you for being so utterly, unknowingly beguiling. I find myself now thinking exclusively of you. _

_An unsuspecting bystander – Royce King_

And for the first time, since leaving Edward, I found myself suffused with rampant emotions. They flooded me heavily and without remorse.

Royce King, the most wanted and eligible bachelor had "unsuspectingly" caught me off guard, as supposedly as I had him.

Father's guarded questions and mother's delighted answers passed over me. I was in a world all my own, a world of sweeping emotions and gentle-springing hope. Someone of worth could actually take notice of me and retain interest.

As I had told Edward, quite unknowingly at the time, life would and had to proceed without him. I had to survive and with my dormant hope coming out of obscurity, I finally knew it to be truth, not a fervor wish.

. .

Little did I know going to the bank and dropping off my father's lunch would result in such a reaction. Yet I find it is a welcomed reaction, and perhaps a sweet beginning of things to come and of dreams to be realized.

. . .

For a week straight, bouquets of roses have been delivered to the house. The first two were a welcomed surprised – at least to mother and myself; poor father is now coming to grips with the situation. The next three arrangements have been happily accepted. My room is filled to bursting, and the smell is exquisite. It's as if I have my own secret garden in the middle of autumn in my bedroom.

The last bouquet came with an invitation for a soirée at the King's estate. It should be quite the gathering, complete with flowing golden champagne and glittering expensive jewels.

My evening gown hangs elegantly off the canopy of my bed frame. It simply waits for me to slip on the enchanting fabric and gracefully dance the stylish night away.

However I sit at my vanity and prepare myself for what I know will be an exciting, yet taxing night. I can already imagine the scorching looks of Mr. King's admirers and the thoughts which will be lingering in their minds. I've already had a small taste of such dealings.

Yesterday as Mr. King and I lunched at a popular restaurant in town, many eyes followed our every move. I'm not unfamiliar with every eye around me following my every move. It isn't vanity which makes me think this, but actual results. My entire life feels as if it has been acted out in the stares of anyone near me. It comes along with the territory of my beauty.

Being with my lunch companion was terribly different than with Edward; not that it is fair to compare. I can still feel the high anxiety of being with Mr. King in public. His intense stares and probing light-eyes are unreadable. I can see he thinks me astonishingly beautiful, which is nothing new, but there is also another layer, something intangible.

Perhaps I was too in awe of being in his company to have the correct mind to try and distinguish his attentions.

Having to say goodbye to Edward, having to move on and having to make peace with that something inside of me which is broken and unwanted by Edward has been difficult – to say the least. It's a constant battle, no matter the numbness.

But though my heart bleeds for him, I won't surrender; I won't fall down. Rosalie Hale would never allow such a notion, no matter how much my self-worth is flailing.

Now, having Mr. King's attention heaped onto me only adds to the swirls of confusion, delight, hope and new feelings. I'm trying to come to terms with Mr. King having genuine affection towards me, no holds bar and no excuses.

His intentions have been made clear. It's safe to assume, at least in regards to his intentions towards me, he isn't playing his cards close to his chest. They are out in full view for me to observe.

.

"Why the slight frown, Ms. Hale?" my lunch companion had asked me. His handsomely distinguished face is quite fetching in the weak afternoon sunlight. "Have I come on too strongly? Am I of no interest to you?" I look away from our audience and the scathing looks I seem to be getting from single girls. It is no surprise who any of the Kings' are in Rochester; their pictures are regularly printed in the society pages.

I study his mien and can't help but feel pride in being in his company and that he'd choose me for his.

"No, Mr. King. It is really of no consequence. Perhaps my own qualms playing havoc within." I try and give him a genuine smile. Like Edward, he has a commanding presence, and it tends to overwhelm somewhat.

"Hmm . . . then it isn't any bearing on my company?" he asks, though I can hear a light teasing in his tone. I find myself becoming even more enchanted with the fair-haired gentleman.

"It's safe to assume so," I banter back. My smile blooms even further.

He slowly tilts his head to the side as he takes a drink of coffee. His gaze never leaves the contours of my face. I don't know what he is studying so intently.

"You are quite beautiful, Ms. Hale. Have I intimated that to you?" He puts down his drink as his eyes all but seem to glow. I can truly feel his attraction to me. It's almost corporeal. Burning.

I have to look down and break the intense connection. I don't want him to see all the truths and lingering hurt in my reflection. But more to the point, I don't want him to see my cheeks tingeing pink. The last to make me blush was Edward. The pain is sharp, but I withstand.

"You have, Mr. King. When we first met this afternoon," I answer simply, probably to what is a rhetorical question. I don't, however, tell him how I feet faint and all but speechless in his presence.

_That someone such as him would wholly single me out_ . . .

"It bears repeating . . . and so very often." I can't fight the feeling and have to see his expression. His voice is calling out to me, all but commanding me unwittingly.

"I would like the privilege of courting you, Ms. Hale."

Once again he takes me aback by the frankness of his statement. Many a gentlemen I have met, and many of them have commented on the opportunity of wooing me, but it feels entirely different with him. It's as if my decision is already made and it is a foregone conclusion.

"I can see I surprise you with my candid request." I nod in agreement. There is no need to pretend otherwise. "But surely, you must know of my serious intention. I have no guile."

He places his hands on the table, as if showing me he isn't hiding anything. I wonder if he knows how telling his body language is.

"How could you know so soon, Mr. King? You are just returned from school and busy with your father's business. I'm sure there are many a ladies who would like the pleasure of your company."

For some reason I feel like stuffing my mouth with cotton. This isn't Rosalie Hale speaking: comfortable in all situations; but a variation of dormant Rose. She isn't Edward's Rose, but someone resembling her. I don't like it and wish to run far from it. It must be the reason I'm feeling somewhat overwhelmed.

"Quite easily, Ms. Hale." He sounds so incredibly sure of himself without even giving me any specifics. Yet he isn't quite finished. "I'm a person who has always known what he wanted. I'm not one to really trifle, Ms. Hale. You're incredibly beautiful, I can see also, though, you have a bright and eager mind. It is no secret you attend Rochester University. It's something to be quite proud of."

I want to shrug off his 'compliment', but he doesn't allow it.

"How could I not want to court the most beautiful lady I've ever beheld, with a sharp mind no less?" I truly have no answer for him. It's not something I can answer. My main goal has always been my future children, and everything I endure is for them. I wonder how Mr. King would react to such a notion, but I don't say anything. Our first meeting isn't really the time for such intricacies. Or so I would believe. He is declaring his intentions towards me . . .

"How indeed?" His white teeth are on display as his robust laugh fills the space between us.

"Make no mistake, Ms. Hale, I want the pleasure and opportunity of courting you. The only thing lacking is your approval. What say you?" He leans forward, and it seems unwitting. He is terribly handsome with his striking features and fair coloring.

This must be the culmination of my dreams: if not with my first choice, then at least with the first choice of every young available lady in Rochester. I might be feeling shaky and faint, but the answer is all but clear. There isn't even a debate within my mind and heart.

"I think it is s-safe for you to call me Rosalie, Mr. King." My request for him to call me by my Christian name is answer enough.

His widening smile tells me he captures my meaning.

_Goodbye, darling Edward . . . salutations to my future, willing companion_.

. . .

It is oft said when a door is closed a window is opened. Well, I can certainly attest to such an axiom. It wasn't only a romantic interest Edward removed from my life when he left, but first and foremost my wonderful friend. He had become to me what no one else had – not even my family.

I didn't have to hide or be something practiced in front of Edward. He truly seemed to accept me as someone I didn't even know existed. She had been a lovely find and addition to my repertoire. Such a fragile, budding, delightful girl.

It wasn't only my romantic affection for him which became numb, but my seemingly strong want in a trusting and accepting companion.

My avenue of release, anonymity and confidant left, only to be replaced with a deafening silence. It didn't seem quite fair, but I was no stranger to understanding life isn't fair.

As I left my lunch appointment with my chosen suitor and walked along the pavement lining Main Street, I hadn't truly paid attention to my surroundings. I knew Clar to be close by and quite frankly, my mind was too full of more important things. It was ever a surprise to me as my shoulder collided with a passing stranger.

An uncouth yelp left my mouth at the hard impact. Before I could even stumble a callous hand reached out and steadied my elbow. I quickly lift my head and go to make my sincere – if not distracted –apologizes.

Before anything can leave my parted lips a huge sigh of air is dispelled. Recognition is instant and I feel myself filling with even more emotions, from those added from lunch. It is the last person I would suspect of running into. Why? I cannot be certain . . . I cannot seem to maintain anything in my life any longer.

Like many things from one's past, this one comes roaring into my immediate present. She was my closest friend . . . she was my confidant . . . she was my unbiased and true companion. Though quite plain and forgettable to many, she hadn't been to me. In fact, until her father lost his job and her family fell from society, we had been quite close. She was an acceptable companion – at least in mother's estimation, and I had been allowed to socialize with her.

"_And it helps she is quite plain, Rosalie. Not that anyone is more beautiful than you, darling_," mother claimed haughtily. "_But I believe her forgettable demeanor will only add to your appeal_."

_How? I never knew for certain_.

.

"V-Vera," I stutter quite ineloquently. Mother would be horrified, even with me stuttering in front of 'inferior company'.

"Rose?" Her voice is just as surprised as my own. "Goodness, you look amazing! I've never seen you more beautiful." I feel myself coloring slightly. Her praise and kind words are all honesty. The sincerity is plainly written on her flushed cheeks.

"As do you, Vera," I return kindly. And like her, I have no untruths. She seems quite happy and perfectly content. She has only returned to my life for a few brief moments, but her happiness is readily apparent.

Though she is wearing ordinary clothes (not fashionable) and she has only a simple silver band adorning her left ring finger, she looks terribly content. Never before have I been jealous of someone else's looks, happiness or life, but I can start to feel a tingling within at her obvious joy.

However, it isn't really her contended look which has something quite foreign rising in me, it is the shawl hanging over her frame and cradling a little babe.

I feel my breath catch terribly as I see the cloth move and little mewls coming from within. My hand automatically rises to my mouth as I try to stop my jaw from dropping.

"A l-little one, Vera?" I ask unsteadily. It is more than obvious to the casual observer she has a tiny babe, but I'm so overcome with staggering emotions.

A soft, sweet smile plays at the corner of the new mother's lips. I am in complete awe at the smile. It speaks of her absolute desire in being so wholly bonded and in love with her child. Her finger slowly caresses the sleeping one's cheek. It is flushed pink and so very plump.

"Yes," she hums reverently. "He's just turned two months." She reluctantly takes her eyes from the little babe and puts them onto me. I feel as if I could glow in the love shining from them.

"What is his name?" I ask just as softly. I find most of my voice has deserted me – never wanting to be found.

"Henry."

My eyes begin to tingle, but no tears are forthcoming. I thank anyone listening for small miracles.

"He's quite enchanting, Vera." She studies me for a time. It isn't a simple platitude I give to her. Henry is terribly enchanting. From his dark, slightly curly hair to his tiny fingers clutching her shawl, he is fascinating. I can hear my heart beating loudly in my ears as I study every inch of him.

"I'm of the same opinion," she replies tenderly. I almost feel encircled in her love of her son.

"Miss. Hale?" I hear spoken behind me. I know what he wants and I know it is time to leave. Perhaps it is the kindest blessing of the day: given the opportunity of escaping this saccharine, overwhelming situation.

I turn around and give Clar a thankful smile.

"Of course . . . time beacons." I wink playfully before giving my attention back to my old friend.

Before I can speak or even excuse myself politely, she starts. "If you ever have the time, Rosalie, I'd love for you to come visit me. I'm sure Henry would also like the attention," she adds playfully as she studies her slumbering babe.

I laugh softly, not wanting to add too much noise around him.

"It would be a pleasure," I hear myself answering. It is as if I don't even need the time to think or contemplate the situation. Regardless, I'll make the situation work. The pull of her little son to my heartstrings is too fierce.

As I glance at Henry I can't help but smile; his little lips are moving, as if suckling, even in slumber. I feel my ultimate desire rear strongly within me. _Having a child of my own . . . what I desire most above all_.

"Here you are, Miss. Hale?" Clar's voice breaks me from my fundamental longing. I turn and reach for the fountain pen and scrap of paper he is offering me.

Quickly and in my elegant script I take down Vera's address. I hand the paper back to Clar before we give our cordial goodbyes.

As I go to turn around and leave, I feel my girlhood friend reach for my fingers. She gently sweeps them over the flushed, velvety cheek of her tiny Henry.

It is as if she can hear my silent longing and see the pleading my heart is giving to my thoughts.

My fight is all but forfeited as a lone tear clouds my right eye. The little one is terribly warm and silkily soft.

I sweep my forefinger over his cheek one last time before retrieving my hand.

I look up to Vera, someone whom I always thought plain and forgettable. "Thank you," the gentle words falls from my lips. I have nothing else to say.

"Not at all, Rosalie." An unforgettable grin spreads over her somewhat chapped lips. "Be sure to come visit us. I'd love the company." I nod my answer before giving one more glace to her Henry and leaving.

I find my heart is full to almost spilling over. And I think to myself, for what seems like the first time, _this is what it feels like to be jealous of someone else. Someone I've never really thought to envy_.

It's quite an awakening.

.

Later in that evening, I sit in front of my father's desk and study his reaction to what I've just related to him. I don't know how he'll react or the answer I'll receive, but I can only hope it to be favorable.

"I'm quite surprised, daughter," he finally says. _Not really what I expected_ . . .

"And you literally ran into each other?" His mirth is contagious. I feel myself reluctantly smiling.

"Unsuspectingly," I add, sheepishly. "We were both wholly taken aback, sir. And directly after lunch with Mr. King. Some afternoon."

"I'd imagine." His smile is in full bloom. It is not only for the amusing story I've related to him, but also because I know he can sense my quiet (yet) real joy in finding such an unsuspecting gift.

"And you mean to see her again?" I nod in the affirmative. I've already told father my intention of seeing Vera again, and hopefully recapturing our old companionship. _If she'll have me_ . . .

"I don't want to be dishonest with you, father. I'd like to have her friendship . . . and not simply in secret."

I'm wholly honest with my father. I refuse to keep _this_ friendship a secret, keeping to the shadows and little indiscretions. I know there is nothing to fear from an association with Vera. It seems my morals are called into question where little Henry is concerned. I can't help but smile at the thought of his angelic, slumbering mien.

"Yet you wish me to run interference with your mother," my father calls me out. He knows my wishes too well. I don't even have to voice them aloud.

"It would be much appreciated, sir. I'm not sure mother would object, especially with Mr. King now courting me. I'm sure she can grant me this small boon."

The stillness in the room is all but deafening. I can't understand how the silence is the loudest sound of all. I study father as he studies me. I make sure to keep my eyes open and forthright. There is truly no hidden agenda in my request.

"You need only ask, baby girl," father relents. A thankful and loving grin overtakes my firm lips. I all but knew father would grant me my request.

Perhaps in his own way he is like mother . . . in his conditioning of me. I know I only have to simply ask father, and if it's within his power, he'll grant it to me. I can't help but wonder if his concessions only add to my vainness; unknowingly, _unthinkingly_ on his part, of course.

. . .

It had been a whirlwind of a day, but wonderful. Slowly the numbness receded and left me with a soft hope.

Yes, life is still attainable without Edward. It simply takes more effort, concentration and resolution. _But, I'm Rosalie Lillian Hale_.

As mother and her hairdresser approach me, I stand and make my way away from my vanity and beautiful roses.

I shake off the past week and prepare for my new life, my new order it seems.

It seems Royce King is waiting for me but simply to arrive – _and so am I_.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

Author's Notes: Hope everyone had a nice weekend. Thanks for the feedback. If you like, please review! Much love sent your way!

_Updated: Monday, 25 February 2013_


	17. Learn To Do Without

**Learn To Do Without**

"_It is easy to get everything you want, __provided you __**first learn **__to do __**without the **__**things**__** you cannot get**__." – __Elbert Hubbard _

.~~.

February, 1933 – Rosalie's POV

It seems like no matter how much one wishes time to stop or go backwards, it doesn't comprehend. It continues to move forward, ever upward and onward. My life is no different and my plea no louder; stunning beauty has no claim on either. I can't explain my inclinations or requests, only that from time to time I feel them deeply within my heart.

No longer am I numb to the mundane flow of life. Somehow, since the induction of Royce King into my life, I've shed that skin. Every day, yet alone every second, feels as if I'm on some kind of new emotional Farris wheel.

Old acquaintances have come back into my life while others have faded. New relationships and companionships have been forged while others not so much. Among the faded is sadly Esme. I still see her often at events, but I know even those small glimpses will soon perish.

I can't help but think about our last interaction and all but the crushing anguish I felt in conversing with her. Slowly and painfully she explained her reasons to me, her reasons for Carlisle and her moving from Rochester. Edward was already departed from here, why would the rest of the Cullen's moving be any different? Any more painful?

I can still feel my eyes sting with tears wanting to pool there. I brush my long golden locks out from the evening festivities and think about our last _true_ conversation.

. .

Mid-December, 1932

With the emergence of Royce into my life, I find that Rosalie Hale is more than anxious to return. She is like an old friend to me, a worn comforter which gives me security in the hustle and bustle of my very active social engagements.

I find myself standing in a pleasantly dark corner. Though there are many persons pooling about me, I find solace in my momentary breather. It gives me a few seconds to let go and actually breathe. I swirl the white wine in my glass and think banally how pretty the liquid is in the dim light. It is a trivial thought, but keeps me pleasantly occupied.

Quiet shuffling pulls me from my mundanely attention-keeping thought. I feel chills run over my bare shoulders, raising tiny little bumps on my flawless skin. Perhaps with her coming towards me, it's only natural for me to look less than her.

My hand comes to a still and the transparent liquid stops spinning. It's unfortunate the spinning starts in my head instead. One would think I've had more than this small glass of wine to drink. No champagne tonight; I'm not in the mood for bubbling beverages. Ever since my eyes landed on _them_ and I saw the gossip confirmed in her eyes even before hearing it roundabout me.

The Cullen's were leaving . . . _at least the remaining ones_.

Perhaps she now finds it necessary or obligatory to tell me in person. To be quite honest, I can do without the pleasantries and well-wishes. _Just go and be done with it_, I think faux-bravely.

I push away all my anxiety, all my pain and take a much needed deep breath. Happily I feel my mask start to fall and wrap gratefully around my being. I now have the courage to look up.

"Ms. Cullen, always a pleasure," I extend, embracing the full embodiment of Lady of the Manor. We are at my significant other's soirée, after all.

Poignant confusion falls over her exquisite face before her lips can all but match my smile. I wonder what she's thinking and if she can – for the last time – see through my façade. I don't need to ask the question aloud to have the answer echoing in my raging mind. _She knows . . . she can see beyond my façade_.

"Always so gracious," she responds sincerely. Like so many times, she has the power to make my façade crumble, but I withstand; I'm Rosalie Lillian Hale. She goes to say something else, most likely polite, but it isn't needed; I want to be away from this crushing situation. I can feel it seeping into every crevice of my exposed skin.

"Please, Esme," I sigh, breaking manners while calling her by her Christian name. "This isn't really necessary. I already know." I give her my most winning smile, but fear it isn't truly working. "It seems as if everyone here can talk of nothing else. The women are happy someone as beautiful yet mysterious as you is leaving our fair town. They now get to shine a little brighter. The men . . . well, they're upset about losing such apparent beauty and someone of Carlisle's caliber in the medical field."

Esme looks away from me, as if she's trying to hide her reactions. I want to giggle at her sincerity, her modesty, but refrain. I only speak the truth while trying to stop the flow of pain running through me.

"I'll miss you most of all, Rosalie," she whispers for my ears only. It is my turn to look away and frantically will the tears not to cloud my eyes. I can only imagine the disrepair it will do to my makeup. It's surprising how such superficial thoughts can take away one's staggering pain.

"Your easy acceptance of me, your gracious disposition and beautiful countenance will always stay with me. You are truly one of a kind, Rose, darling."

I swallow the lump in my throat. Pain erupts in the pit of my stomach. I don't know how much more of this I can bear; I need to be far from this too gracious woman . . . my once-friend.

I wonder why the people I come to regard the most seem to hurt me the most.

"It was a pleasure you made far too simple, Esme." I turn back to her, wanting to see the effects of my words on her ageless visage. Thankfully the tears stay away, but I know they shall dampen my pillowcase later tonight.

We stare at each other, in that timeless wisdom which only women seem to understand. It is an unwritten language, but speaks directly to the soul. My hand wants to reach out and trace the shape of her face, the perfect curves of her cheeks. I don't want to forget anything about my sweet, too sincere friend. However, I resist and trace her features with my eyes.

"When are you and Dr. Cullen leaving?" I ask, not wanting to know the answer, knowing my last fragile connection to Edward will disappear as quickly as it began.

"Not until the beginning of summer next year. We still have a few months until departure," she jests, but I know her words go deeper. They will be here for some time, yet, we won't be interacting.

"You know I wish you all the best . . . don't you, Esme?" I need her to know of my deep and lasting sincerity towards her family. No matter what happened between Edward and me, I want nothing but happiness for them. Her family deserves nothing less. I hold no ill-will towards her.

"Of course, darling. I think nothing less," she reassures me with a sad, wobbly smile twisting her lips. "And you, also." She looks away from our sparse corner and into the party crowd. Standing in the center, with all his friends around him is Royce. I feel my heart flutter momentarily as I take in his handsome profile and commanding stance. He is no mere mortal, even among the elite.

"But then again, you seem to already have that," I hear my departing friend speak happily.

I turn back and allow my wistful grin to linger.

"Yes . . ." I leave hanging between us. I don't need to say the words for her to know what the most inner walls of my heart whisper. She is well acquainted with her brother and what I wanted with him. I wasn't very subtle around her . . . yet alone . . . _Edward_.

"Well, I think it time for me to retreat. I can see my husband wanting my assistance."

I look towards her beyond gorgeous husband, and though he is smiling graciously and speaking kindly with those around him, there is a slight tired sheen to his eyes. I know the look terribly well. Those of us who tire of these tedious occasions notice the look very well. I can't fight the smile tingeing my lips.

"He looks adorably lost without you," I tell her candidly, trying to suppress my giggles. "He loves you so, Esme. You are indeed blessed beyond measure, my friend." It is the most heartfelt and earnest truth I can give to her.

A queer looks overtakes her face, and though I can't read the emotion, I know it is something deeply personal. I almost feel terrible for making her feel such a thing before it disappears and is replaced with a blindingly beautiful smile.

Quicker than I think possible, Esme leans towards me, rests her silk-gloved hand on my cheek, and busses my skin with a kiss. "Remember my adoration for you, Rosalie. I shall you . . . _always, darling_."

And with a piece of me falling away, it goes with her towards her husband and _him_.

I allow one single tear to run down my powdered cheek and onto the marble floor. I can always blame the swirling dust. Somehow, it seems to nourish and fill in the sinking feeling.

My breath catches as the illustrious Dr. Cullen looks my way and gives me the most breath-taking smile of the evening. I reach out and allow my hand to linger on the papered wall. I fear I'll fall without the support.

_These Cullens' and their affects on me_.

A wobbly smile is returned to him as he tips his head in respect and mouths a "thank you" to me. Somehow, I know it's in regard to his family and my brief acquaintances with them all.

I find myself being grateful also: no matter how short my acquaintances may have been or how spectacular the kisses were.

I break our short, meaningful interlude and shakily bring my wine to my parched mouth. This evening is more tiring than even I predicted.

As I pull myself together and remember who I seem inherently to be (my mother's creation), I finish off my wine and swipe the wrinkles from my immaculate, most fashionable dress.

_No one here can compete with my beauty_, I simper. _No _. . ._ no-one_.

My eyes rise back up and land on my apparent future . . . _the one who shall give to me my most ardent dream_.

A confident, handsome grin breaks over his masculine lips. I feel my feet begin to carry me over to his side . . . regardless of his gesturing me over or not.

. . .

31 December 1932, New Years' Eve

There are moments in life every fanatical girl imagines: the perfect prince, the perfect saving grace moment, the perfect courtship, the perfect life with the perfect little babies. But in the beginning, she imagines the perfect engagement.

Of course, soft music is present . . . sweet smelling flowers, flickering romantic lights, swirling silk dresses and never-ending smiles from the beloved on bended-knee pledging his eternal devotion. It all adds up to the perfect culmination.

I wasn't any different. I'm not any different. The graceful tears falling prettily down my flushed cheeks testifies of it.

After dinner was finished and Royce made a toast without even sipping his alcohol, he turns to me.

I look up at him with my soft smile. I know he likes it when I give him my adoration. Being in a public setting doesn't seem to distract from his wanting and seeking my sole attention.

Like so many times and countless experiences, he bends over and caresses my cheek. "You are beyond beautiful, Rosalie," he compliments me in front of everyone. He has no shame in telling me of his affection. He claims my beauty should be revered in public.

The room goes silent as we capture the attention of everyone present. I find myself heating in the cheeks. I'm not one to shy away from the spotlight, but this seems much more intimate. It is only our families and close acquaintances, but the moment is intense, for reasons I can't even explain.

Royce's fingers linger over my skin as his light-colored eyes all but bore into my soul. It's as if he is trying to meld his into mine. His stare is a little daunting, unreadable.

"From the first, I knew you to be the one, Rosalie Hale. There was something about you which captured me. You enraptured me and have done little else since. And why wouldn't you? You're an absolute beauty among these mere mortals. So many pale in comparison to you, darling."

I'm utterly speechless at his words. If not for his fingers clutching my chin, my jaw would surely fall open. He's spoken of my beauty countless times, but I know this to be different. His all but possessive look tells me so. If I'm not mistaken, he would consume me if possible. Shivers of excitement run helplessly over every inch of my skin.

My breath catches in my lungs as he pushes away from the table and bends on one knee.

_The culmination_ . . .

The chandelier in the Grand dining room sparkles brightly, the wine in my glass bubbles happily, the soft swish of my evening gown sounds pleasing, the tears in my eyes gather eloquently, and the glittering from my engagement ring all but blinds.

"Be my wife, Rosalie," I hear Royce say, all but softly command. I study him, our surroundings, my mother's happy tears, my father's solemn face and the brilliant diamond ring encased in black velvet.

"Yes, Royce," I hear myself saying . . . without thought or contemplation. It is what I've known to happen since he began courting me. And I'm so terribly happy. My useless tears are testament to my endearing happiness. Our short courtship hardly matters.

Only my heart knows of the sad jewel-colored eyes which flash momentarily in my mind and just as quickly disappears.

The weight of the ring and Royce's firm, demanding lips on my own push everything away but his presence taking over mine. I fall helplessly into my new fiancé's arms.

.

Early morning of the first day of the New Year, 1933

As I stare at my newly placed engagement ring, my heart flutters madly under my skin. If I didn't know better, I would claim a hummingbird resides in my chest. Though I'm floating on the top most clouds, even my mind isn't that zealous. My feet are firmly planted on my floating cloud.

The light of the moon catches the facets of the diamond exquisitely. _Such a huge, magnificent diamond. It does weight heavily on more than my ring finger, though_.

I giggle a little manically, thinking such inane thoughts, yet trying to retain my sanity.

_It is terribly late_.

Tonight is the culmination of my every fervent wish. I no longer need to close my eyes and think of my future husband. He now has a face, name and important place in our social circle. Many will praise our union. Our parents sure seem to look on our union with a keen, well-pleased eye.

My memory quickly cautions me to rethink the last thought.

After the congratulations had been given and our future union toasted by mostly everyone sharing in on my most joyous occasion, I looked over to my father. It was all but instinctual. This was the man who was part of me, helped to create me, provided for me, loved me. How could I not look to him?

The moment was brief, but unforgettable. Amongst the laughter, praises, flowing champagne and hard liqueur, father's face was momentarily stilled. The handsome lines around his eyes were pulled tight, his forehead wrinkled and lips frowning. It was his eyes, however, which captured me.

Though they didn't spill, tears lingered in the violet color; the color I had received from him. It tinged his eyes grey and remarkable. This was the moment he terribly dreaded, I knew. Oft times I heard him and the Madam discussing this very moment. And now it was before him, as solid and real as our bodies.

When father finally caught me staring at him, all but drowning in his reluctance in letting his baby girl loose, the frown of his lips turned ever slightly. Despite the fact that his face still spoke of his sorrow in seeing me go, he was proud of me. Not Royce, not the engagement, not my mother's flowing happiness . . . _but me_.

It was no wondered I loved and favored my father so fervently. He was my friend, my protector, my ally against mother and tedious social norms.

I slowly but surely walked over to him, smiling and thanking those who offered me their well-wishes for my set future.

Once I finally reached him, I free fell into his opened arms. He smelt of after shave and sweet after dinner drinks. This was the very embodiment of me.

"Never have you been more magnificent, baby girl," father whispered in my ear. The tears I had so valiantly held at bay wistfully fell. There was no stronghold against my father's proffered love. "Love suits you so thoroughly. Royce King is beyond blessed to have procured your hand."

I knew this was my father's jaded opinion, but I took his heartfelt words to my soul, promising myself I'd always remember them and the cadence in which they were spoken. My father loved me endlessly, and being married wouldn't change it.

"Thank you, daddy," I cried quietly into his shoulder. My safety port. "Thank you for everything under the stars." I had no other words of thankfulness to offer. For my father gave me everything tangible to him under the heavens.

This was the moment I knew would eventually come and the one which spoke of the unembellished reality I now found myself in. I am to be Mrs. Royce King . . . all but unbelievable to me, yet it isn't.

I wipe at the tears running from the corner of my eyes. They are a combination of happiness, contemplation, and a loss of my childhood.

I close my eyes and let everything go.

.

I toss and turn in my bed, wondering if I'm actually coherent or in some state of sleep. It seems as if I'm floating in some unconscious reality, where reality is dark and love is inbounding.

Short, beautifully soft memories of my childhood pass before me. My memories have always been startling sharp. If I were more coherent I would reach out and touch them. What a stunning child I was: all curls, golden skin, rosy cheeks, captivating to all who pass by me.

Somehow that little girl morphed into Rosalie Hale, and even I can't account for all the passing time. For goodness, was it quick?

And soon, I shall have little ones of my own. They shall be the light and soul of my life. They will be my reason for breathing, living and enduring. Though I love Royce and know he will provide handsomely for our future, it will be my children I love the most, cherish the most. Nothing shall ever take their place.

I wonder if my fiancé can see that about me, can see beyond the beauty of my face and body he praises so much.

_There was someone who did_ . . . my heart traitorously beats. _Oh yes, he knew so terribly well. Could see to your very depths_.

_Ed_-_ward_ . . . _Ed_-_ward_, my heart beats in succession.

His exquisite words repeat in my mind. For how can I forget our ending, our goodbye . . . "_Never have I seen someone so made for the role of motherhood. Like I've told you before, it is so intrinsic in you. As if it's woven into every fiber of your being_ . . ."

More tears leak uselessly from under my closed eyelids. I beg my eyes to open, to pull me from this sad weakness. Truly, I've worked hard, to move beyond Edward and to put our interlude behind me.

But it must be true, the clichéd first love; more like the first fall. Regardless of where I go, what happens in my life and who may touch my heart, Edward belongs first; was there first. And though I feel pain and a tearing weariness when I think on him, it wasn't for naught – and something I'll never trade in.

A gentle smile now spreads over my dry lips. _He was the first_ . . . _he was the first_ . . . _he was the first_! my mind comforts my erratic heart. And I'm able to let go, to embrace the future (Royce), to fall blissfully into sleep, content in the knowledge that Edward was my first love; my first fall.

But the queerest feeling now surrounding my odd sleeping reality is the strong arms I now feel wrapped around my torso. Soft, cool breaths tickle my neck as a hand entwines with mine. It gives the lightest of pressure, as if telling me all is well.

My heart starts to beat even more slowly, knowing I am safe and in the arms of my love. Nothing can ever compete with such blissfulness, to such rightness I want to argue. My thought remains silently unspoken.

Though I know this to be a figment of my sleep-addled imagination, I allow myself to wallow. I want the comfort of my Edward one last time, to be surrounded and encircled in him, to be freely, unreservedly lost in this night. It doesn't matter that the first part had belonged to Royce and our engagement.

"Love you endlessly, love," I think I hear brokenly murmured into my hair. I want to turn and comfort my apparition, but I'm too comforted by his phantom arms around me. Instead I let go and endlessly sink into him. "Never forget me, love . . . please!"

"Never, my darling," I hear myself respond wildly, knowing I'm only speaking to myself. But even my phantom Edward would receive all my love if possible. I want all versions of him happy.

Arms tighten around me as a cold cheek is laid on mine. I am wholly surrounded. Heaven personified.

Tomorrow I can be Rosalie Hale, soon to be King. But tonight . . . _tonight_, I am Edward's Rose. She makes one last grand appearance.

"Love you endlessly," I hear whispered over and over until all I know is darkness and nothing but Edward's love.

_My first falling_!

.

My body starts awake as if every nerve-ending under my skin is jolted. I could swear I hear the window creak open. However, as I scan the room and pathways the weak dawn light underscores, I see nothing but the familiar. All is still in my room.

I fall gracelessly back onto my bed and chastise myself for being so foolish. I even wonder if this is all a dream, a continuation from earlier.

But as I close my eyes and feel my conscious departing, I can't help but think my pillow is a little cool, indented and smelling of candied apples.

Nineteen thirty-three starts off with a resounding bang and heavy eyes.

. . .

February, 1933 – Late Night

I cringe quietly as I will the floorboards not to creak under my weight. I should feel terrible about my actions, but find I cannot stay away. Sometimes the only way to learn something is to be underhanded.

Something akin to guilt twinges under my breastbone, but it's easily ignored. My mother's vexing voice helps to alleviate any sense of wrongdoing.

I want to peek around the corner and witness my parents' interactions, but fear I'll be caught. I comfort myself with being able to hear them all the same.

"You must have the best intentions for your daughter, Rich?" the madam demands of her husband. I can't tell if it is a question or a command. "Are you not able to see Royce is that young man?" I wonder if mother's face is wrinkled. It gives me a perverse happiness thinking it is. Especially after the many times she lectures me on the 'offence'.

I want to yell at mother, "_how dare she speak to father in such a manner_," while stomping my foot, but find it unnecessary. I should always know he has everything regarding his wife well at hand.

"Listen, Lillian . . . and _listen well_, my dear," father intones. I can't help the chills running under my skin. It is rare when his voice ever becomes so cold and his wife must know she's crossed a line. Father is more than in command of the situation and our family.

"_**Don't ever presume**_ to lecture me on what is best for this family or my daughter. I am the head of this house and will make the pertinent decisions facing us. I don't take such responsibility lightly, especially Rosalie's well being. Do I make myself _**more than**_ abundantly clear?" he asks slowly, evenly, _coldly_.

I have never seen my father raise a hand to my mother, but even I know she has now pushed him far beyond his limitations.

"I only meant to extend my c-concerns, R-Rich," mother stammers horridly. Again I feel myself feel perversely happy at her fright. It makes me a terribly bad daughter, but I can't find the wherewith to care. She deserves nothing less.

My teeth bites down on my bottom lip, making sure no sounds of mirth comes from me. I don't want my father's ire directed at me, and I especially don't want to alert them to my presence. I know eavesdropping is inappropriate (uncouth maybe), but it's the only way to find out information in my family, without confronting the source.

"I know of your _quote on quote_ concerns, wife. Don't try and defame my intellect. You want all that the King's connection can offer."

"And you don't, Rich?" mother demands harshly.

I jump terribly as I hear glass shattering against the wall. Blood blooms on my tongue as I wince from where my teeth cut into my lower lip from surprise. My shivering starts again, and for the first time, I want to scurry back to my room.

"What have I told you, not five minutes ago, wife?" father asks callously.

"N-Not to presume." I can hear the fright thick in her answer and fragile tone.

"Most correct, Lillian." Footsteps from their room sound in my ear and I can't imagine what's happening. I push myself further back into the wall, all but wanting to blend in flawlessly.

"You know me well enough to know I wouldn't turn my nose at such a connection. It would add prestigiously to our family and our prosperity . . . especially in these financially-straight times. I've already given him my blessing; what more would you have of me?"

I can hear the hard edge to my father's voice loosening, but can't imagine what causes the change. However, it isn't required as father unknowingly answers some of my confusion.

"I've heard whisperings, Lillian. And though I know our daughter's well being only means a climb in society to you; however, it means a damn sight more to me."

Mother goes to respond, probably to defend herself, but her husband silences her once more. _Thankfully_.

"There is a reason he's come back a semester shy of graduating from university. People talk, wife – something I'm positive you are familiar with. Don't you hear the whisperings . . . the insinuations?"

All is silent, and I feel myself shake from my father's tone. I am beyond confused and don't know what to think or feel.

"No, Rich. I only hear the best of Royce King." For once, I can hear the ultimate sincerity in the Madam's voice.

But I can't help but think (perhaps meanly) she sees only what she wants, hears only what she wants. Everything else seems to magically disappear.

"He's the most sought after gentleman and desires your daughter above all," mother continues. "_He_ wants _her_ for his wife. I can't think of a more advantageous match or better circumstance for her. Rosalie will never want for anything, Richard."

_Oh, mother is good_, I think sharply. _She knows just how to appeal to her husband. Perhaps she would do well as a talking advert_.

"Do keep your machinations to yourself, Lillian." I quickly cover my unladylike snicker. Father knows all of her games.

"I gave my blessing and will stick by it. The marriage will proceed, the connection will be beneficial, you shall rise in society, my dear, and my daughter shall have everything she should. Her happiness is paramount to everything, Lillian."

A soppy smile blooms over the entirety of my lips. My father will never know fully of my love and adoration for him. Always.

My mother has no response and neither does father. I know the conversation – at least the pertinent information – is over.

As quietly as possible I stand up from the wall and make my way back to my room. Their conversation will give me a lot to think over.

As I walk on I can hear my father's fading voice, "And be sure to clean up the glass, Lillian. It should be good for your constitution."

I can't help but giggle into my pillow as I collapse onto my bed. _Mother was rightly handled_.

. . .

March, 1933

Woman after woman models the latest fashions for Mrs. King and myself. We sip our tea daintily as we discuss what we like and what should have never been created in the first place. Some fashion trends boggle the mind.

It was my fiancé Royce who first requested I accompany his mother on this shopping excursion in New York City. It is still different to hear myself refer to a man as my fiancé. Sometimes it seems all but a floating dream.

I'm quite surprised I like his mother as much. She tends to come off cold and unfeeling. But what many fail to see is the quiet regard and somewhat shy manner she wraps herself in. The reservedness comes off as cold and aloof.

My regard for her rises when I witness her with the Madam, especially during forthcoming wedding plans. Constance King doesn't seem to be the biggest fan of mother, but one couldn't tell. I, however, have the pleasure of knowing when one is simply tolerating mother. And Mrs. King reeks of tolerance for Mrs. Hale.

Once our purchases are made and the quibbling over who pays is rectified we make our way from the high-end department store and onto the busy streets of New York City. I immediately quash the trembling wanting to rise inside me. _Done and finished_, I remind my forgetful, sentimental heart.

Mrs. King and I quickly kiss each other's cheeks as we separate into our awaiting cars. Constance will be leaving immediately for Rochester, not being able to tolerate the city for very long, and me for my Aunt's.

I give Clar a winning smile as he shuts my door for me and begins the process of weaving through Manhattan traffic. His aggravated low rumblings about the congestion is quite funny. I allow it to distract me from memories best forgotten.

_I'm an engaged woman, anyhow. Soon to be married_.

.

Nothing has really changed at Aunt Jacqueline's. The place is still immaculate, antique furniture polished to high sheen, air smelling fresh of bountiful bouquets of flowers, and Aunt Jackie's candid comments of life, love and her sound investments. I love the flow and ebb of her posh townhome.

After she retires for the afternoon to attend to her business–"_money doesn't make itself, girl, and an old spinster has to live on something_!"- my brothers and I just bask in each other's company. It is rare when I have the opportunity to see them, and cherished when I do.

We each snack on the little cakes and finger sandwiches Aunt Jacqueline ordered for afternoon tea.

Surprisingly it isn't Benjamin who is cuddled up to my side. He is usually inseparable from me when we have time together. But I guess it is passed. Like Henry at his age, he now feels too old to be snuggled by his older sister. It gives my heart pains, but I know it to will pass. Henry pressed to my side is evidence enough.

My arm tightens around the second eldest child in the Hale family as my love for him swamps me. I will forever love them both as if they were still fair-haired little boys only wanting to snuggle in my waiting arms.

"What gives, Henry?" I finally ask my quiet, reserved brother. I can't help but think of Vera and her little Henry. His deep smiling dimples and wild, soft curls.

I feel my brother exhale sharply as he turns towards me. My fingers motherly push back the hair falling into his violet eyes. They stare intently at me. When older, I know he will be quite the heartbreaker. _If he isn't already_, I think sadly wistful.

Instead of answering, Henry picks up my hand and studies my rather large engagement ring. Five carats situated in an antique Victorian setting. The ring is beyond exquisite.

"You're happy, aren't you, Rosie?" My breath catches in my throat as my brother plays with my ring without looking into my eyes. I wonder about his reluctance.

"Of course, darling. What would give you a reason to think otherwise?" I inquire curiously. His white teeth shine over the bottom lip he's chewing on. I wonder, absentmindedly, where he's picked up the habit. Mother would have kittens if she saw the _"perceived"_ weakness.

Henry shakes his head, as if clearing something from his mind, before meeting my eyes. He tilts his head and seems to study me as he did my engagement ring.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything," he explains, but I brush it off. I don't want him to ever feel as if he cannot confide in me.

"What is the matter, darling? Truly?" His eyes seem to grow even more solemn than usual, and a little sad. My heart beats painfully for the look.

"You just seem different from this past summer," he mumbles, but I catch every single word. My breath stutters in my lungs as I nod my head. When my brother goes to look down I catch his chin gently in my hand. I want him to see my most ardent appreciation of him and his concern for my well-being.

"Don't look away." I push the hair away falling in his eyes. "You can always feel free to tell me your honest opinion; both you and Benjamin," I sooth. He nods and smiles briefly. I think it too short, but continue on, "And as for being different, I'd agree. Engagements tend to do that to a person," I jest good-naturedly with him.

His low laughter rumbles over my fingers still holding his chin. I swipe my thumb lovingly over his cheek before letting go.

"You really like Mr. King, then?" I can see the apprehension in his eyes, even though I've just given him my reassurance. He and Benjamin would never make such a statement to the Madam.

"Yes, Henry, darling; I really, _really_ like him. He is a wonderful man and we'll make a great partnership. I know our engagement seems rushed and out of left field," Henry's laugh at my baseball reference isn't wasted on him. "But," I continue poking him in his side for good measure, "I know this is right. Royce will make my future wonderful. You'll see, baby."

As his laughs subside, his bright eyes never leave mine. "It's all I want for you, Rosie . . . to be happy. You've been an amazing sister/mother to Benjy and me. And though we don't tell you often enough, we love you very much."

I am helpless to the happy tears which mist my vision. I defy anyone to not fall for such sweet-hearted, innocent sentiment. My love spills over my already full heart.

My lips meet his soft forehead as my hands wrap around his boyish face. He's already shed most of his boyhood fat, and his face is sculpted to resemble me so very much. He will be the embodiment of handsomely refined.

"I got a letter from Edward. Well, Benjamin and I both," he whispers. I can hear his reluctance in wanting to talk about the subject. Henry, Benjamin and Auntie also received letters from me, explaining about Edward's subsequent move and wonderful opportunities to advance his career. It was needed after they all asked me after him and his well-being.

"Yes?" I reply, trying to keep my voice steady, light and stable.

My little love pulls away from my embrace and watches me. I'm not naive enough to believe be can't see some residual sadness, but he can also see my acceptance and happiness for Edward's blooming career.

"He wanted to thank us for allowing him to pal around with us, for allowing him to "intrude" on our limited family time. And also for us accompanying him to the Yankees' game. Can you imagine, Rosie . . . thanking us for accompanying him?" My brother sounds astounded, but I'm not.

Edward seemed to find himself lacking, and those who paid him any honest attention surprising. I didn't understand his terrible lack of self-disregard.

"He only wanted to extend his appreciation to you both. I know he enjoyed your company."

"And yours, Rosie." I give him a tremulous smile. I want to argue with my brother's astute observation, but I can't. Regardless of how things ended with our friendship, I know Edward cared about me, understood me. It doesn't matter that the pain says otherwise.

But it is over and put away. I now have Royce and our future to think and reflect on. We shall have gloriously beautiful children. With fair-hair and violet eyes.

"And mine," I validate. My fingers smooth his dark golden hair from his eyes. "I'll miss Edward, but I'm also happy for him, Henry." I feel the need to explain myself even further. He seems to need the explanation. I can see his hurting for me. My brother was always too attuned to my feelings. _My darling little Henry_.

"Edward was a wonderful addition to my life for a while, but he was needed elsewhere. Mourn for those you miss and keep the happiest moments close to the heart. Then, they will never really leave you." I swipe my fingers on the nape of his neck before settling them over his heart. He studies me.

"Life has a funny way of bringing on the most unexpected and life-altering experiences," I tell my little brother, while smiling.

My young life has certainly attested that to me: _first infatuation . . . first love . . . first perfect kiss . . . first heart break . . . and my future husband with the one least expected_.

"Understand?"

My hands still on his healthily-flushed cheek as he nods solemnly. I can see the clear understanding in his intelligent eyes. But I can also see some of his worry and discomfort for me disappearing from his gaze. I should have known he'd want to make sure–in person–I am truly well. It is who Henry Richard Hale is.

"So I'll like Mr. King, you say, Rosie? And you know me so well . . ." My fingers resume their relentless poking into his side as his laughter bubbles around us.

"Cheeky little snot," I scold him as he tries to angle away from me. His laughter is the calmest balm to my heart.

Benjamin, hearing his brother's loud mirth, runs into the room to make sure all is well. When he sees his brother in peril from my fingers, he charges. Sadly it is to avenge his brother from the evil Big Sister. _They have no loyalty to their sister_, I think happily as Ben's joyful shrieks join in our happiness.

My brothers, _my little loves_. I adore them endlessly.

.

On the way back to Rochester from my wonderful interlude with my younger brothers, I console myself. I tell myself, _yes, all is well_.

My brother's sweet concern has me on edge. But it is only to be expected. My wedding is in less than a month away and my married life soon after will follow.

_Things will be well with Royce_. _Beautiful even_, I tell myself. _I love him. And from the way he studies me so intently, carefully, I know he has deep feelings for me. Goodness can he stare endlessly, deeply at me_.

Clar, in seeing my shiver, gives me a wary look.

I wave him off, stunning him with my beautifully confident smile. _Yes, all is well_.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

Author's Notes: Hope you liked the chapter. I know there wasn't much Royce interaction with Rosalie, but it is intentional. This story has always been about her and the evolution of her character. How seemingly unexpected things can turn into great experiences in one's life, regardless of their endings.

I always thought Rosalie misunderstood and short-changed in the books. Compared to _**wonderful, incredibly deep-feeling**_ Bella (*snorts inelegantly*) Rosalie was painted as a one-dimensional character with nothing but astounding beauty being her saving grace. I thought it unfair and wanted to try my hand at making her more than a flat character; no offense to Ms. Meyer's or anyone else's interpretation of her.

Anyhow, just wanted to state my reasoning for some reason . . . hehe.

Hope all is well with everyone, and please, if you have the time or inclination, review. Hope everyone who reviewed got my responses. I cherish them all and thank anyone who does take the little time to review. You are my continual muse. Much love, everyone!

_Updated: Saturday, 09 March 2013_


	18. But a Whimper

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns everything recognizable in the land of Twilight. The letters in **bold** are taken directly from "_Eclipse_" (Ch 7; pgs 157-160). No copyright infringement is meant. **Warning**: sensitive material. Please take notice when reading this chapter. Violence. Slight non-con.

**But a Whimper**

"_Simplicity is the ultimate __sophistication__.__" – __Leonardo da Vinci _

.~~.

April, 1933 - Rosalie's POV

Little Henry's coos pulls me from my conversation with his mother and onto his beautifully innocent face. His cheeks are a healthy pink and quite pudgy. His dark hair curls slightly near his folded neck as his playful dimples appear. He is everything a gorgeous baby should be. I find myself powerlessly in love with him.

My friendship with his mother is not as I remember. In some ways it seems easier. We can talk more candidly; have more meaningful conversations, without the innocents of youth. With Vera being terribly content and really wanting for nothing, there is no jealousy on her behalf.

I can remember the looks in her eyes from when we were all but children. She thought I couldn't see, but it was her disadvantageous. I saw everything . . . mother made sure of that. Mother wanted me to glory in my beauty, to see the envy others held against me. I didn't understand at the time how much thrill it gave to the Madam. It gives me the shudders even contemplating it now.

But it clears from my mind quickly, especially having baby Henry in my arms. His sweet babblings are like music. I wonder what he is thinking and how his mind processes things at such a tender age. Yes, it is easy to see why Vera is terribly content.

"Aren't you the most precious darling," I fuss at him. His pudgy, little arms flail about in excitement, his eyes bright with awareness excitement. I can feel my eyes tingle at such exquisite simplicity in my arms.

It is funny how life changes and emotions can reverse so quickly. I want to laugh at the irony, but hold it in.

As I talk to the tiny man-in-waiting, I think about the last few months and all that has transpired. The wedding plans have come together quite splendidly. Even though we plan to wed at the end of April and Royce and I have only been engaged for several months, our lives and social obligations seem to have melded.

Without sounding too love-struck, I can't help but think there's some invisible hand leading my life, leading me down a clear and unsullied path. Things are almost too perfect. I know how ungrateful I sound in my mind, but after my experience of first love and having things fall apart with Edward, it is smart to be somewhat cautious.

I'm often caught up in my life, enjoying the endless parties, having one fancy dress after another, seeing deep envy in people's gazes, drinking one fizzy glass of champagne after another, and knowing no one is as beautiful or glamorous as me. _Yes, Rosalie Hale has come roaring back_.

After the glamour has faded and the lights are extinguished for the night and the creaking of my house settles around me, it is then when my mind plays with my happy, insulated existence.

I've come to dread these moonless nights. I see images in my head I'd rather not think on. Yes, I've been endlessly happy and spoiled by Royce, but I realize how much time we spend apart. I can't fault him, being awfully busy overseeing his father's many business ventures.

When we are together, he is quite attentive, always having to touch some part of my skin, staring at me so intently. We talk of our friends, acquaintances, obligations after we are married, and expectations of our standing in society.

He constantly regales me with compliments of my outer beauty.

I wonder if he knows that while I want these shared aspirations and appreciate the admiration, I also want children. They are most important to me.

When I catch him look intently at me, all but devouring me, I imagine he is picturing our life, our expectant children and the blissful life we'll share. And when we are old and grey, hanging onto life by harried breaths, our children will surround us, filling in any available space with their enduring love.

Such a terribly glorious dream it is to me.

But even among all the glittering dreams of my heart, there is a little awful chill, something which seems off. It is on these moonless, cold nights when I feel the emptiness. I can't explain the discrepancy, so I chalk it up to my wild unbound imagination. I'm simply looking for problems, trying to prepare myself for a possible fall.

_Is that so_, I can hear my mind taunt. _Why does he stare at you so intently? What faults does he see within you? Is he able to see beyond your astounding beauty, Rosalie? Why are his kisses all but possessive . . . somewhat vacant_.

_Think what you will_, I respond illogically, trying to put my mind on brighter paths. _Royce loves me devoutly. It's only natural for his affections to be shown in his amorous kisses_.

More often than not, I can dispel these tired notions. They are shadows manifesting from my badly ended relationship with Edward. _Nothing more, nothing less _. .

I look down at the squirming baby in my hands and lean into his cherubim cheeks. I kiss them warmly.

"Yes, they are, darling," I coo to him. "Made-up manifestations on my part. A girl has to have some fright the week before her wedding. Even to someone as wonderful, busy and socially connected as Mr. King. Where much is given, a great deal is required. I know this lesson very well." I unbury my face from little Henry's neck, but keep his pure scent with me.

Slowly, but surely his eyelids start to droop. I can only imagine the heaviness in them. They flutter helplessly as he fights to keep them from closing. I like to believe he doesn't want to lose me from his vision, but even my vainness knows limits. He's simply a tired little lad.

We both startle as his mother stumbles into the room. Her cheeks are flushed and I can see regret lingering in her eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Rosalie. I didn't realize the time," she immediately starts to apologize. Before I can dispel her worry, her little son starts to wail. It breaks my heart for several reasons.

Even his young ears can make out his mother's voice, and now he wants her above all else. He craves her presence and most likely her breast milk.

I tremble a little as I reluctantly hand him over. He no longer requires me and has eyes only for his mama.

She sits in a frayed chair by the fire and settles her little one to her breast. She puts a tattered blanket over her exposure and watches her son for a while. Her happiness and contentment all but drowns the room. I can feel each and every emotion running beneath her too pale skin. But even with all the good surrounding me, I can still taste my own feelings, and topping the list is envy.

It is such a heady emotion to me, something so profoundly unknown. I've been the envy of my peers, the pinnacle of everything they want. Sadly it made me happy and smug. But as I now taste this vile emotion, I want nothing to do with it.

I can't even explain it. Yes, Vera has her beautiful son and he loves her unconditionally. But it shouldn't be enough to warrant such deplorable feelings inside me. Soon, I shall have my own little ones.

As I try to work out the puzzle, the frenzy I feel fluttering in my heart, her voice pulls me from my inner-musings.

"Are you ready to be married soon?" Her soft voice is for her son, but I can hear the happiness in it for me. The girl is blissfully content. "You must be so excited, Rosalie." Her eyes are bright with love and fire from the flames warming the room.

"I am, Vera." And it's the truth. Plans have come together so seamlessly, and in such a short time. Even I am surprised by Royce's quickness in popping the question. "_There isn't a reason to wait, Rosalie_," he explained soundly, evenly. "_I'm a man who knows what he desires, and you are the most desirable, my dear_."

_I shivered_.

"Royce will make a splendid husband, and I know we shall be very happy together."

The little mother bends over and kisses her little bundle. His suckling noises have now stopped. I wonder what it will feel like to feed my own child the milk I'll produce for him or her. The experience will be like nothing else . . . _incomparable_.

"I wish you all the happiness, my friend." She looks away from Henry and serenely smiles at me. The truthfulness of her words is written on her plain yet satisfied face. She's beyond sincere.

"One week left, then? You must be bouncing from the walls," she giggles between her knowing statement. "I remember it all too well."

"And then some," I admit. Though all my dreams are about to be realized, it doesn't stop my stomach from knotting and twisting painfully.

_One week left_ . . . _too much time_ . . . I never knew myself to be so pessimistic.

"But everything is happening according to plan. Mrs. King and mother are the embodiment of efficient. The Wedding coordinator may feel the need to retire after this affair," I jest. She has been run quite ragged, especially by the ever-demanding Madam.

"I'm awfully happy for you, Rosalie. I just want you to know it." My head tilts to the side as I study my newly reacquainted friend. My left hand falls over my chest in exquisite tenderness, that which only a female friend can rouse. I feel as if my hand is the only thing holding my wildly beating heart in my chest.

"And I you, Vera."

Our knowing stare is broken by the opening of her front door.

She quickly adverts her eyes from mine and to her front door. That happy, contented smile takes over her face again as she studies her beloved who's just returned from work.

Mark, quite an ordinary name which matches his looks, is exceedingly dirty from his employment. He is in every way imaginable average. However, when he takes in his wife nursing his son, average is replaced with wonderful. It is terribly clear to me his reasons for existing is exhibited in his immediate eyesight: Home, hearth, _wife_, _son_ . . . _life_.

The exquisitely tender picture before me becomes blurry as something sharp digs into my heart. It must be that pesky envy again. No other emotion can come close to making me physically ill. I'm not disgusted by his dirty state or the lower-income home they reside in, but something wholly deeper, more intrinsic.

I can all but hear mother's pitiful laugh in the back of my mind, scolding me for such paltry envy of squalor and for being in their presence. She would find nothing endearing in Vera's life or situation. If it mattered even a little bit, I would feel sorry for mother.

Before me is the picture of happiness personified. It doesn't matter their station in life, the paltry wealth they retain, what each one can bring to their marriage, how they match each other in personality and looks.

As Mark enters their modest home, he doesn't even notice me. It chaffs my ego somewhat, but I cannot fault him. My eyes always seek out little Henry's presence when I visit Vera.

When he reaches his little family, he bends down and places his lips, first, on his slumbering son and then on his waiting beloved's. If I were writing some prose, words would escape me in describing the picturesque vision before me. How can one put love and enchantment into words? It's all but an impossibility. _Well, to my meager vernacular at least_.

As I study the little family, I take in the way Mark stares. And finally . . . _finally_, I'm able to pin what sends prickly aches to my heart. _Devouring_ isn't the term I'd pen when writing of his affection for Vera, but unadulterated adoration. Anything she would wish and he could obtain for her, he would. Mark's intentions are clear and innocent. He only wishes for his family to be happy, safe and so loved.

The parallel I make with my relationship leaves me desirous and falling short. When Royce gazes endlessly at me, I can see some affection he holds for me. But is it this wholesome desire to want to love me endlessly? I cannot answer. Sadly it's unanswerable. I can't help but shiver.

I shake my head as husband and wife now greet each other with softly spoken words over their child. These questions and qualms are only an anticipation of my upcoming nuptials. I hear it only natural to have these fears. Getting married, no matter how happy, is a tremendous undertaking.

No two marriages are the same. While Vera and Mark may be endlessly happy, and in love, they are still poverty-stricken. There will be limits to their family and what they can provide for their children. They most certainly won't rise above their meager station.

Royce and I won't have such boundaries. Our future is secure and our expectant children will have the world at their newborn feet. Wealth shouldn't be such a precursor, but it is indeed. Especially in our dreadful economy.

I'll always have people envious of me and everything I have. My looks will only mature and ripen with age, being splendidly ageless.

Whatever the differences, I know things will be fine. I'm to be married in a week and nothing will subdue my sublime beauty. I shall sparkle brighter than all. Everyone present will be witness.

"Rosalie?" I hear spoken a little worriedly. I break from my wonderings and look to my friend. She may have been calling my name for several seconds.

"Sorry, I must have been far away," I explain. She gives me an understanding grin. Mark has already left the room and Vera is placing the sleeping babe into his wooden cradle. An antique I have recently gifted her with.

"I wanted to know if you'd join us for dinner. I've become distracted and meant to have dinner on the table by now." She grins down as she rearranges the blankets around little Henry.

I can't even imagine what it would be like to prepare dinner for my man. Surely, Royce will employ a fulltime cook. My culinary skills are nil.

My feet balance as I stand and chase the unseemly wrinkles from my skirt. I can see mother's brows creasing in disapproval. One day, I know her expressions will be far from my conscious.

"That's quite generous, Vera. But I've already overstayed my welcome."

A worried frown creases her forehead.  
>"Oh never, Rosalie," she mplores thoughtfully. I feel terrible for making her feel this way. "You are always welcome here. Friends of our history and caliber are difficult to come by." I can only nod emphatically at her statement. For she is beyond correct. My life is filled with superficiality and those who pretend to be my friend.<p>

"All right," I say smiling softly, lost in my affection for this generous woman. "You've twisted my arm."

Our smiles continue as we head into her kitchen and I help her put dinner on. It's only fair, seeing as I monopolized her time. I only hope my contribution is edible.

. .

After dinner is finished, and our pleasant, light-hearted conversation has subsided, I thank her once again for being such an amazing friend and confidante. It must have been fate which brought Vera back into my life.

I help to put her meager kitchen back to right and allow Mark time deserved with his son. I'm only glad to take his place for the evening in helping his wife.

When things are scrubbed clean and the lights dimmed, we head back into the main room of the house. A smile overtakes my face as I watch her little Henry sitting up, giggling deeply at his father's antics. The scene playing before me is warm and heart-endearing.

"You'll keep him up all night, Mark," Vera pretends to scold her husband. The effects of her words are lost through her own mirth.

"No such thing, dear. I'm only tiring the little lad out," he defends as Henry lets out another peal of laughter. He captures everyone's heart in the small room.

The tight squeezing in my heart only reminds me how much I'm intruding, and it's past my time to vacate their home.

"Well, I should be heading home," I tell Vera, pulling her attention from her family onto me. "It's quite late. Mother will soon be going mad. She insists I get as much rest as possible this week. '_Beauty must be respected and retained, Rosalie_,'" I mock the Madam.

Both Vera and I laugh. She knows mother all too well and her hefty demands.

As I start to gather my expensive things and look out her window, I see night has fallen and the street lamps have been lit. It will be quite chilly out. However, it isn't anything I can't handle.

Mark cuddles Henry in his arms as he stands up and makes his way towards us. He quickly passes the reaching boy over to his mother. It seems that not even Mark's affection for his son can compete with his mother's arms. Little Henry loves his mama above all, as it should be.

As I turn to put on my overcoat, I see Vera's husband place a loving kiss to her cheek.

I feel my heart start to beat even more rapidly. The action is terribly sweet and touching. I wonder what such easy love and affection would be like. Even with . . . _him . . . Edward_, it was more intense and wholly captivating than this. _Perhaps I only inspire intensity in men_. _Never a simple, easy love_.

When I'm finished bundling up, I turn back around and see a lovely little family. Henry is happily in his mother's safe arms and his father is standing protectively over them both. Mark's arm is securely around Vera's waist. _Such a united front they present_, I think sadly, yet happy for her.

"Don't be a stranger, now," Mark jests as he opens the door like a gentleman for me.

"I'll try my hardest to otherwise," I jest back, leaning in and hugging his muscular frame. I am grateful, though, he's taken a bath. Some of my fussiness will never abate, I'm afraid. Too deeply-rooted.

I turn my affections to mother and child. I encircle them both in my arms and place loving kisses on dimpled cheeks. It's quite clear where little Henry inherited his dimples. He is all smiles as Vera picks up his hand and pretends to wave.

She softly leans into me as her warm breath wafts over my ear. "Good luck, Rosalie. You'll be the most stunning bride there ever was."

I know her words are all sincerity, thus bringing a tear to my itching eyes. I will the tears away as I pull away and study her guileless face.

I place my gloved hand on her cheek and sweep under the curve of her bone.

"Thank you, Vera. For everything," I enunciate. My words fall inadequately short.

"Always, sister." I nod my head slowly while swallowing the lump in my throat.

I leave my most beautiful smile on her door step as I walk away into the waning night. Mark's affectionate kiss to his wife's brow as he closes the door leaves my heart feeling a little heavy.

. .

* * *

><p><em>This is the way the world ends; Not with a bang but a whimper.<em>

– _T.S. Eliot_

* * *

><p>The clicking of my shoes keeps me company as I make my way home. It's a shame Clar is sick and out of commission. It is frightfully cold, unseasonably cold. The moon–my longtime friend–is obscured by clouds. They look heavy, ominous.<p>

I pull my fur coat further around my body as I make the short trek home. Though Vera lives in a poor section of town, it isn't terribly far from my home in the Corn Hill District. It's peculiar how such two dichotomies of lifestyles can be so closely related in geography.

My mind plays over the weather and how much it can be a hindrance for my upcoming wedding ceremony. I surely don't want to move it indoors. Spring is such a lovely time of year–not to mention my favorite. It would be the perfect backdrop to my walk down the aisle. As new life begins in Spring season, so does my new foray into marriage.

Boisterous, muddled laughter starts to ring in my ears, replacing the clicking of my shoes on the pavement. I sharply look to my right and see a group of men under a **broken streetlamp**.

Wary shivers–which have nothing to do with the coldness of weather–race down my spine.

I watch as one all but trips over his inept feet. **Drunk**. The word instantly comes to the forefront of my mind. One hasn't gone to as many parties as myself and not seen such boorish behavior on display.

I forget all lessons in posture and etiquette as I hunch my shoulders. I know it's futile, but I try and make my person invisible, all but unseen as I sink into myself.

I think of my father and how I could use his presence as of now. I can't understand why I didn't think to place a call to him.

Their inebriated laughter becomes more riotous; I cringle terribly. I wish helplessly I would have phoned father.

_A little ways further_, I consol myself. _A little ways further_.

It stands to reason when one doesn't want any attention paid to them, it will be quite the opposite.

Many things gush through me, but my abbreviated name falling from _his_ lips stops me cold. "**Rose!**"

_Mistake one_.

Iciness and lasting dread seem to fill every fiber of my cold being.

_Please no_, I plead to no one in particular. All is silent and deserted, except for Royce and his drunken friends.

Like any other night, Mr. King is dressed to perfection. Being drunk and disorderly must not have a specific dress code. His tailored suit and overcoat are a little wrinkled, but they're still the best money can purchase. His terribly handsome face looks a little wild and too bright under a broken streetlamp.

I take my eyes from him and study his group. I recognize some of them, being in my social circle and all. They are the sons of prominent business men in our fair community. They are just as impeccably dressed as Royce, if not as handsome.

_They all look a little too wild_ . . .

Slowly but surely Royce makes his way over to me. Something inside of me is pleading, all but sending my heart fleeting from my chest, but my feet are frozen. There is nowhere to go.

They continue to laugh and hoot, as if my fiancé calling out my name is hysterical.

My mind races with so many things. I think of Royce and witnessing him drunk. I don't understand how he can even be.

At all the parties we've attended and all the dinners we've hosted, I've seldom seen him partake of alcohol. He claimed not to have even **liked champagne**.

"_Why do you not drink when we are at gatherings?" I inquired after my fiancé. He had just given a toast but refrained from drinking. It seemed to defeat a purpose to me. _

"_I detest the drink, Rosalie. Why else would you see me not partaking?" he asked a little callously._

As I now see him a little unbalanced, it is funny I never thought to ask him about hard liquor. _Since it seems his choice of drink, and far from distasteful to him__. _

Rough hands grab at my shoulders and pull me closer. I can now smell–as well as see–the affects of Royce's drinking party. I cringe a little from the smell, but whimper more from the pain of his fingers burrowing into my skin. _Even through my coats_.

Tears automatically come to my eyes as I try to back away from him.

I don't understand his rakish behavior or why he's treating me as such.

His sickly breath wafts over my face as he leans in closer to me. I valiantly hold back the sickness which threatens to leave my mouth.

"**Here's my Rose!**" my husband-to-be bellows to his unruly bunch.

They sicken me to my very core. I fight the hard chills coursing through my veins, but it's for naught. _I'm not his Rose_.

Everyone is laughing around me, causing more confusion and revulsion to surface. I simply want to be away from here.

"**You're late. We're cold.**"

_So am I_, my heart cries painfully, sacredly, heavily.

"**You've kept us waiting so long**."

_I didn't realize we had a appointment_, I think unsteadily. _And if we had, I'd had never ventured near you in such a state. This is beyond ludicrous. Please_

I'm now caught in a world of fright. I don't know what to think, feel, or where to even look. I want to yell out, scream for help, but something tells me it would be unsuccessful, ineffectual. The night around us is too still. The tears start to fall innocently from my eyes. I can do nothing else.

I'm terribly helpless and even my beauty won't remove me from this sinking situation. _It will condemn me_.

My whimpers become louder as I moan from pain. Royce's fingers slide from my shoulders down to my arms. His clutch on me becomes punishing. Bruises must be already blooming on my fair skin. _It's always been sensitive_, I plead silently. I feel so very stupid.

"**What did I tell you, John**," Royce boasts. His fingers are unrelenting on my arms. I start to silently beg anything, and anyone, to get him to let up. The pain is much. His breath is atrocious as is drifts disgustingly over my face.

_I don't even recognize this John_ . . . _another common name_ . . .

"**Isn't she lovelier than all your Georgia peaches?**" Royce thinks of my beauty to the very last.

_It is no wonder he stared at me so consuming. And I thought him above it. Rosalie Hale, silly indeed. Naïve to her core_.

The anonymous John comes from the shadows and peers over Royce's shoulder. Unlike Royce, however, he doesn't look as drunk, but just as wild. His gaze sends my heart to the very soles of my feet and my skin sweating (despite the freezing cold). My fate seems all but sealed. His hungry, zealous eyes vividly tell me so.

Tears fall over my lashes. _Please_.

Every detail about him pierces my hysterical thoughts. His hair seems too **dark** and his skin too **suntanned**. Even with such minimal light, I can recognize all these minute details. _It's interesting what the mind picks up in such terrifying moments_ . . . _in such hysteria_.

As his mad eyes rack over every inch of my skin–clothed and unadorned–I feel as if I'm being evaluated. Soon to be sold at auction.

"**It's hard to tell**," this unknown John **drawls slowly**. His unhurried southern accent causes my hands to sweat through my gloves. I can feel his eyes, his words, as if they're branding my unexposed skin like cattle. "**She's all covered up**."

_And my fate is sealed_.

It is this statement more than anything which allows me to know what will happen. I now cry incessantly. I'm scared beyond measure with no way out of this most heinous situation. _How is it to be born_?

Dirty, chilling laughter scorches the air around my surrounded being. _Completely surrounded_. I see nothing but an impenetrable wall of men and a **broken streetlamp**.

My painful breath clogs in my throat as my skin trembles aguishly.

The barrage starts . . . my under jacket is torn from my frame along with my fur, and from my promised fiancé, no less.

_This was something you purchased for me_, I think erratically, helplessly. I don't know what else to think. Surely this must be the most bloodcurdling dream imaginable.

The **brass buttons** pop off loudly and echo in my ears as they clatter to **the street**.

_Buttons are expensive in this economic downturn, you fool_, my mind underscores. I've completely lost my train of thought. My sane thinking has deserted me, along with any other saving grace.

Royce's hands finally leave my arms, but it gives me a momentary reprieve, a false hope. They quickly reattach to me. Horrendous pain encases my head as my beautiful hat is pulled from my hair.

I now scream.

"**Show him what you look like, Rose!**" His voice sounds light, but I can hear the feral undertone to it. He is depraved and unrelenting.

I never knew hair sounded so brittle when pulled from the root of one's head.

The pins securing my hat are yanked out and scattered among my fallen buttons. My hair is beyond ruined and hangs limply around my face. The tangled curls intermix with the salty water falling unceasingly from my eyes. It looks dim and frail in the weak light. Almost grimy.

He laughs; his drinking friends' laughs.

Why are they laughing? . . . laughing? . . . laughing? My pain, my degradation, my obloquy downfall are all fodder for their laughter. Their enjoyment.

**The sound of my pain** . . .

. . . .

I know nothing but excruciating agony. Merciless cold. It's unyielding. How can a battered and terribly trampled body experience such pain?

They took turns. They laughed. They hurt. They ravished. They ruined. They kicked. They pulled. They thrashed _unrelentingly_ . . . in . . . to . . . _me_.

**They** leave **me in the street**.

I always thought laughter to be joyful, and yes, mocking . . . but never derived from someone's physical torture and depravity.

Yet their ruthless, unsympathetic, cruel laughter rings in my ears as they leave me terribly broken.

It is simply mind-boggling how I can still hear them clearly. My body is broken, my beauty chased away, my skin ripped open and bleeding, my bones cracked and lying at awkward angles, my golden-red curls torn from my scalp in clumps, but unfairly I can still hear their slicing words. It is wholly and terribly unfair. _How can fate be so cruel_?

"You'll now **have to find a new bride**, Royce. Hopefully as delicious as the last." More cold soaks my carved skin.

My vile fiancé laughs. "I'll **have to learn some patience first**."

_Finally alone_. _Irreparable_. _Terminal_.

**They thought I was dead**.

Unhurried, white, pure flakes of snow fall from the clouds above and onto my stationary body.

_. . . I am . . . dead_.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

Author's Note: I ended writing this chapter with a whimper. I always knew it wasn't going to be easy, and it wasn't. Hopefully, the content wasn't too horrid to read. I wanted Rosalie's unspeakable fear to show, but not write the act invoking said fear. Hope it was written alright.

Anyhow, thanks for the feedback. Please, if you have the time, review! I'd love to know your thoughts! Hope everyone got my replies for last chapter. My computer has been messing up terribly.

I hope all is well with everyone. Much love.

_Updated: Saturday, 16 March 2013_


	19. Strips Our Illusions

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns everything recognizable in the land of Twilight. The words in bold are taken directly from "_Eclipse_" (Ch 7; pgs. 160-161). No copyright infringement is meant. **Warning**: sensitive material. Please take notice when reading this chapter.

**Strips Our Illusions**

_"But time strips our illusions of their hue, and one by one in turn, some grand mistake casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake." _ -_Lord Byron _

_.~~._

Time passes, but it seems irrelevant_. **They thought I was dead**. __Why hasn't it come yet? Does death also leave me alone, abandoned? Does no one want to claim, soiled, broken Rosalie Hale_? I seem to be left in limbo, nothing but unrelenting pain to keep me company; that, and this unceasing cold.

I want only for this unbearable and excruciating pain to relent. It makes my toes want to curl, but even that is impossible. I am too broken to move anything but my eyelids. And even that is awfully excruciating.

I wonder if I'm frozen to the ground as cold snow covers my body like a mocking pure blanket.

_How am I so lucid? Shouldn't I at least be granted a reprieve? Aren't I allowed to be utterly mad with grief and beyond reach_? I can't fathom what I've done so wrong in my young life.

I want to be released from this life, this pain, this coherency.

_All I wanted was children_, I hear myself brokenly think. _Too much to wish for_?

_Children_? _Wistful_.

_Will I be able to have them after my brutal assault after brutal assault_?

This time, instead of imagining them with my invader's fair-hair, and my now tainted golden-red tangles, I picture them with bronze tresses. They should have his beautifully unsullied hair. They should also have his pale skin. But even with my tainted skin and bruised body, they still have my violet eyes. They should always have my purple eyes.

Tears painfully fall from my battered eyes. It is all for naught, alas. I lay here, aching, hurting, trespassed against, brutalized. Innocence running ruby-red down my torn inner-thighs.

I won't be able to have children now. The way they crushed me, trampled between my untouched womanhood has sealed that fate. I can feel it throbbing, as I focus on my womb and the corrupted region. Why should a pure babe even have to reside in my desecrated womb?

_It doesn't matter anyhow_, I remind my wandering mind. I'm left here like rubbish. Used and discarded waste. Rosalie Hale–no one can compete with her beauty-is now no better off than a distasteful, dirty, sadly forgotten vagrant.

_Why won't the beyond take me in? Surely I cannot be that terrible_. I want only to slip from this life: close my heavy eyelids and release myself from this frail existence.

I want for the cold to stop bombarding me. I want for my eyes to stop weeping for things now lost. I want for my sad body to stop throbbing in agony. I want for my last breath to occur and my last heart beat to sound. I want the release.

Yet, it seems the things I want aren't forthcoming. I'm a ruined image of my former self, left with my silly wants that won't be granted.

I close my eyes and will for anything or anyone to take me to heaven. Certainly, I must be going there. Royce and his brutal friends have seen to that.

The snow continues to fall softly on my forgotten person.

.

Firm fingers seem to be probing my body. I feel them as they seem to touch every part of my ravished skin. _They cannot be back for more_, I think hauntingly.

_**They thought I was dead**_.

With what little strength I have left, I open my puffy eyes and see golden hair disarrayed under an expensive hat. Though the image is terribly blurry, I know the hat is expensive. It is a fine hat, indeed.

Perhaps this is my final walk across the grand stage of life. The man under this expensive hat with the somewhat gentle probing fingers is come to take me away.

The wince leaving my bloody lips tells me otherwise. Surely passing from this existence shouldn't be dreadfully painful. It should have all ended by now. Fate should have released me from my fall from grace.

Golden eyes, a little darker than golden hair, comes into my limited sight. His irises are dark, but kind. I can see the concern and heartbreak written so tenderly in the beautiful irises. If possible he would take this atrocity from me.

_Eyes . . . so kind_. The color so reminds me of . . .

_NO! _

_Surely no_ . . .

Dr. Cullen has somehow found me and is trying to save my fading life. His healing, gentle, probing hands tell me so.

I want to fight off the kind deed, but cannot. My body is too broken to move. I want to tell him to stop, but my mouth is too frozen and swollen. _Why can't he allow me to be?_

His beautiful face swims in and out of my fuzzy vision. I simply want him to look at me, to truly look into my eyes and see my defeat. He must allow me to leave. I don't want to exist any longer. This life holds no more dreams or wishes I could possibly obtain.

The doctor becomes more frantic in his search of my person. I know he's trying to save me, but it's a terribly fruitless endeavor. He should allow me to slip into the next life with dignity, with solitude. I only want for the last, great sleep.

_So beautiful_, I think. He and Edward were always entirely too beautiful. I first resented their glamorous presence in my society. Men shouldn't have been more appealing than myself.

But as time passed and they became more accepted, I came to stomach them. At least until Esme knocked me over with her sincere kindness and pretty compliments. I was lost after Esme endearing kindness. I defy anyone to stand against such a barrage.

Enchantingly beautiful she was, under the gentle light of the chandelier. And Carlisle Cullen was her counterpart in every way. He shined even more brightly than her.

But even they . . . yes, even they paled in comparison to Edward. His looks and visage were untouchable. It was easy to hate him, _but goodness_ . . . _I couldn't_. My fall for him was quick and irredeemable.

It was, and still seems to be wholly unfair.

'_Stop,'_ I want to command of Dr. Carlisle Cullen. I can feel my ire rise. I want to be left alone.

Only sad gurgling noises leave my swollen lips. It burns my throat exceedingly.

Unable to understand my anger, commands, or simple last wishes, the doctor covers me in what can only be his cashmere-wool coat and pulls me painfully into his arms.

This time, the burn in my throat is accompanied with pitiful whimpers.

_Everything hurts. Please, it should have stopped hurting_.

Air sounds too loudly in my ears. How can it be gushing by so quickly? Though I am wrapped tightly and my blood must surely be mingling with the expensive material, I can still feel the extreme cold on my face. It passes over me at an alarming rate.

_Could this be the blessed and deprived end_? I question my mind. No answer is forthcoming, but I am flying. It is the only plausible explanation to this queer situation. Is the doctor taking me to meet the beyond?

"Hold on," I hear spoken aloud. Dr. Cullen's voice–though filled with terrible worry and anxiety–is quite smooth. I imagine silky water flowing between my fingers; the feel is indescribable. "Hold on, dear."

It sounds like a prayer leaving his lips, and one I don't intend to fulfill. I want nothing but to depart. I no longer want for this life. Without doubt. . . _without doubt_, he must know and accept that.

I let my eyes fall closed. Too much work it takes to keep them open.

.

Warm . . . wonderfully warm, I feel caressing my skin.

This is the first thing I notice as my eyes weakly open. Things are still blurry, but the bright light causes me to wince terribly. I wondered who ordered the sun to rise directly in my eyes.

_At least it's warm_. _This must be it_ . . .

I can't explain why else it would be so enticingly warm. My breaths become shallower as I try and force a smile to my lips. I don't want to leave this world with frowning, puffy lips. My grand entrance into the next existence should be greeted with a glorious smile, despite the rest of my battered appearance.

I also can't help but notice how the pain has receded. There is still a blunt ache, but it's almost a slow burn. The embers dying in a bright, magnificent fire. And so was my life.

I can now sigh and know the end is near. One last wish to me granted, though my greatest denied.

_But wait . . . this cannot be right_.

_Why is something cutting into my neck, something awful and painful?_

_I thought my anguish over with. Why does the afterlife still reject me_?

I grimace as the piercing pain spreads next to my **wrists and ankles**. This cutting pain makes no sense to me.

As something starts to spread in my veins, I finally feel the dreadful scream leave my puncture neck.

_Surely it wasn't the reason I was brought here. Surely, Dr. Cullen wouldn't hurt me further_. But the now burning under my skin tells me otherwise.

The constant fire now searing my body feels even worse than my horrendous attack. I thought the pain couldn't get worse. I thought Royce had given me the greatest pain my life would ever know. Having him violate the trust I placed in him had ripped the foundation out from under me, made the pain all the more gruesome. But this burning, as if I'm in an actual inferno, breaks the mould.

The plea falls from my lips before I can even think to formulate the words.

Between my grisly screams and arching back, I beg him. All pride is forgotten as the tears of agony stream down my burning flesh.

"Kill me, Dr. Cullen! Please!" I implore for all I'm worth. I want none of this. Nothing could ever be worth this fire from hell eating at my body.

My pleas go unanswered, and my useless tears continue. It is terribly unfortunate they can't help the unbearable scorch.

My screams seem never-ending. Even Dr. Cullen's hand in mine does nothing to sooth. Not even his sincere apologies and soft pleas of for me to simply hang on. I only want to be released from this eternal hell.

I know nothing else but my want for another existence.

I only ever wanted . . .

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

Author's Notes: I know, pretty short, but it accomplished everything I set out to write: Rosalie was left to die; the all-caring Dr. Cullen took her away, "saved" her, bit her; Rosalie wants nothing but to leave this frail existence. A lot of heavy material for such a short, little chapter, yeah?

Anyhow, the next (last chapter) will be long. And there will be a slight surprise. It should be posted in a few days. I've written the majority of it. All that's really left is filling and major editing. Easy, right? (*laughs self-mockingly*).

Hope all is well with everyone. And above all, I hope to you see for the last chapter. Please, if you haven't reviewed yet or for a while, do so now. I'd love some feedback. Much love, dear readers. Especially those in Massachusetts and Texas. My most profound prayers are with you. Boston Strong! and Texas too! We stand united!

_Updated: Sunday, 21 April 2013_


	20. But You Learn

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns everything recognizable in the land of Twilight. The words in bold are taken directly from "_Eclipse_" (Ch 7; pgs. 161-162). No copyright infringement is meant.

**But You Learn**

_Experience is a brutal teacher, but you learn. **My God, do you learn**.  
><em>_―__ C.S. Lewis_

.~~.

Edward's POV – April, 1933

Repetition.

It appears to be a lackluster concept, but is nothing of the sort. If anything, repetitious patterns are what keep me sane; kept me consistent.

For a while (after ending my _acquaintance_ with Rose) my iterance revolved around family and the peaceful escape they provided. Never had they failed in filling my disturbing void – except when I rebelled. Nothing could touch the darkness in me then. But as it receded and the rational part of my nature evened out, I found my solace in Carlisle (my creator) and Esme. The isolation hadn't felt so suffocating.

But after hearing the news of Rose becoming betrothed and soon to be married, I knew I was no longer meant for Rochester. I couldn't tolerate seeing her married off to someone so undeserving; starting a life and eventually carrying his heirs. Every inch of me screamed to carry her far away from this impending madness, but my sense of right and wrong, my obligation to my human morals wouldn't allow such a selfish action.

And my time with her had already passed. Our infinitesimal moment in the shades dwindled as the clouds finally broke, allowing the sun to finally breath clarity into me. She was meant for light, love . . . _motherhood_. I was meant for blood, eternal shadows . . . _sterility_. There was no way to correlate, to unite the two. Our existences were as different as hot and cold; the only common denominator being extremes of a similar spectrum.

_So I left_.

After being with Rose for a few hours the night of her engagement, finally bowing down to the utter madness and ache coursing through my limbs, finally confessing to her the unfulfilling truths of my soul, I left. The only thing I could leave her with had been my ineffectual love.

My feet had carried me far from her, but the madness remained within. Nothing could absolve the agony I put upon myself, and I didn't deserve such relief from my consequences.

Perhaps I was simply a masochist, bringing more pain into my life for some twisted pleasure. But even at the core of my _self-gratification_ (my most selfish desires), I knew my heart loved her. There was no doubt, and my mind refused my request for such fabrications. I would be punished for my inexcusable actions. Edward Mason Cullen had played with fire and eventually got burned. Simply because the burning wasn't physically visible, didn't preclude my un-beating heart from feeling the agonized torture.

_Oh, for it was exquisitely heartrending_.

After weeks away, and constant solitude, the only thing which brought comfort was repetitive actions. It gave my mind focus, and a simple goal.

_Need to hunt . . . need to hunt. Need to wash the blood off . . . need to wash the blood off . . . need to run . . . need to run . . . need to be still . . . need to be still . . . need to hear other's thoughts – distraction . . . need to hear other's thoughts – distraction . . . need to make replenishing musical pieces . . . need to let the music fill every unattended crevice_.

It was a constant monologue set to repeat constantly in my mind. I filled every space in my mind and refused to think on anything else. Even when I talked with my family, I refused to hear anything about _her_. It was the only way for me to survive, to continue on.

I should have stayed away from Rose to begin with, but I was always glutton for self-punishment. The things I denied myself the most were the greatest things which became my vices. Child that I was – and still am – I didn't like being told _no_. One simply had to ask Carlisle and look to my past rebellion to see my track record of being denied.

But Rose hadn't been a simple rebellion, and Carlisle hadn't told me _no_. She had been above the fray and so overwhelmingly different then I could have imagined. I had no frame of reference for her, and she would have defied every expectation anyhow. Unknowingly she refused to be settled into any mould.

But even with my time away, and my predicable patterns, I found I needed Carlisle and Esme. I came to rely on their guidance, love and company too much to be without. And like the privileged and coddled vampire that I am, they accepted my situation and decided to move. It was never easy for us to acclimate to a new town and new people (humans are leery of our involvement), but Carlisle and Esme would suffer the upheaval.

They tendered their resignations to their obligations, told their acquaintances of their future plans and started the process of packing up the house. Though they liked Rochester, and finally felt as if they fit, they would leave. There was nothing they wouldn't try to do for me.

It is now how I find myself at _home_ and hunting with Esme. After literally opening the front door (after being away with what felt like months), putting my meager travel bag down and being accosted with Esme's hugs, she requested a hunt. Carlisle was at the hospital, working a late shift and Esme hadn't wanted to go alone. How could I refuse her after every sacrifice they made for me?

So I shook off my reluctance (the overwhelming need for my piano room and the music filling my soul) and accompanied her. It was probably better this way; rather being in a place which reminded me so vividly of _her_.

The ache is still tremendous. Why did I agree to come home this weekend, knowing what would happen later this very week? _Glutton for punishment. Oh yes . . . I am_.

Now that my hunt is complete and I feel the blood sloshing within me, I feel more stable. The only downside is the unfilled time. It gives me too much margin for error. I think on things best left forgotten, pushed from the very recesses of my thoughts.

_Well, life isn't always accommodating_.

Life – as I know it and exist – hasn't been the most swell. It is a situation of my own making, I know; but it still doesn't mitigate the pain and the constant usurping I feel in wanting to be near her. To somehow be in her life. Especially being so close to her. I can all but taste her scent tingeing the air.

_But all is finished, and time will continue . . . eternally_.

I release the unneeded oxygen from my seldom used lungs and look up to the sky. It is a glorious night, one in which I'm actually thankful for my enhanced senses. The firmament painted above could never look as celestial with frail human eyesight. It so pales in comparison.

The stars shine like a billion pinpoints of lights in the inky darkness.

When my hunting companion finally finds me, she pulls me from my wistful thoughts. We set off towards the house.

Esme's gentle footfalls traveling with me are a welcome reprieve. Though she knows the strains I am enduring, she doesn't press the issue vocally. She lends to me her support and unfailing strength simply with her presence. With my life being ruled with death and blood on a never-ending continuance, she is a god-sent. She and Carlisle both.

We are creatures born outside the womb, cultivated and produced to be beings of the night which prey on humans. It is what we do, it is how we survive and feed.

But not Carlisle. Never Carlisle. He is different. Always has been and probably always will be. My eternal respect for him cannot falter. My love for Esme can never diminish. We are a family of vampires, not just some band or coven of individuals co-existing together.

Their presence in my life is something which is solid and unchanging; just as my constant thirst. I never question their love and commitment to me; even when I generate mistakes while pulling them along into my barely floundering survival.

I can feel the pain even now, the loud thundering in my ears and the aching stillness of my heart. It all mixes horrendously together, creating painful sensations of longing. Hunting seems to be the only activity which takes the sting off my own-made torture. It aches even more than my unquenchable thirst. Something I never thought possible.

_Again, a situation of my own making_, I'm swift to remind myself.

_But she was undeniable_.

From the first, Miss. Rosalie Hale captured my attention and seldom-felt interest.

Most humans I overlook, ignoring their obtuse lives and redundant thoughts. Yes, my silent heart sometimes twinges for starving children and harrowing mothers, but they have no bearing on my existence. Their hardships seldom touch my life. My nature is above their tribulations.

Vain I am, unyielding I can be, but adoration I feel for my family and little else. My nature demands little else from me. To some it would be a sorry excuse, but it is the only way for me to exist.

Humans purely fell short. However, in that vacant library where dust happily found a home, hearing her weak whimpers of help and off-tune humming did something intrinsic within me.

Getting the door of the broken elevator open became my priority. It didn't matter how much I wanted to escape from her frightful and debilitating fear. Something refused me. _Perhaps my masochistic nature._ I was in need of something entertaining amongst the mundane.

No plausible explanation came to my mind, and still refuses to surface. The reason seems to mock my very gift while laughing in my unchanging face. _Some things Edward isn't meant to know_, it ridicules me.

Oh, but Miss. Hale . . . she had woken something innate inside of me, something I had no idea lay dormant. How could I raise a resistance to something foreign?

I shake my head and refuse to think on such lapses of my judgment. I already feel heavy and terribly burdened by my transgressions toward . . . _her_ . . .

Even now as I run towards home, without even having to close my eyes or bring the memory to recall, I still can smell her aroma. It must cling to every surface, every blade of dead grass surrounding our property.

I wonder if she came earlier, frolicked spitefully around – just to torment me into hell. A punishment I well deserve.

Among the chaos of my mind and wandering senses, I somehow hear Esme come to a complete stop. I can't explain how I know, it just is. And before my eyes even take her in, the churning inside me increases. The thirst I abated earlier roars red-hot in my throat as the venom all but burns my rigor-mortised veins.

Without thought, I turn to Esme. I watch as her beautifully calm face transforms into one of deepest distress. Her fingers start to claw at her hair as I catch drifts of the last moments of her life: the courage she had to simply jump and the emptiness she felt in her womb and heart. The wind blew heartlessly at her solitaire figure up-top the cliff.

_No reason to exist . . . my baby gone . . . jump . . . pain finally end. _

I don't want to relive these memories with her. I had already endured them when she screamed with her beloved's venom flowing freely in her veins.

Some things are never better the second time around or with age.

Before I can think to make my way over to her, her hands fall, her thoughts of the past clear and she comes back to the present.

However, watching her is no less painful. With each shallow breath she brings into her lungs, another, more painful shard of pain courses through her body. I'm amazed she is still standing.

Her eyes become focused on me as her hands are placed over her unbeaten heart.

_Isn't he able to hear it_? she questions. Her compassion all but washes over me. _No time . . . my poor Edward, my son_.

Slowly, as if I'm some rabid animal, Esme walks towards me. Her hands are outstretched, as if I'll keel over at any given moment.

_Does she mean to catch me_?

With everything swirling around me and with something deep inside me trying to tear its way to the forefront of my mind, my mother's actions only bring more confusion to me.

Her queer behavior sends sparks through my venom. I am at attention.

Shaking my head and moving slowly away from Esme, I all but trip as the first scream shatters over me. The pain and the terror of the scream all but render me immovable. I am a slave to my instincts and baser nature in the next moment.

The growls of protection leaving my mouth cannot be stopped. I recognize those cries, and the exquisite anguish. They seem as familiar as my own. They are sounds I've caused myself.

There is no need to say or think _her_ name. Esme's thoughts do it so eloquently, so unwelcomingly for me.

_Rosalie . . . Beautiful, strong, enduring. Simply cannot be . . . No_!

The tears which will never fall gather in Esme's eyes, causing me to utterly break.

All of my personal hell ruptures loose and my worst day-terrors are brought to life. What I tried to save and back away from slaps me harshly, sardonically in the face. All of my recent pain and self-sustaining are for naught.

I cannot even comprehend the purpose, the very cruel irony of this situation.

_Rose is screaming_ – the girl to which I had no shield for, no self-preservation in regards to is enduring a burn where these is no cure. _Only fickle time_.

Her screams and pleas of release speak too heartfelt to be anything else.

_It is all for naught_, my mind reminds my own pain viciously. The monster within me is rejoicing at what I tirelessly denied myself. _Horrifyingly satirical_.

My feet and my soul refuse to wait for Esme to reach me. I can't help to do anything but run. My soul-shaking need to see what my mind has already confirmed overtakes me entirely.

Esme's voice is drowned out by my weighty footfalls. Yard after yard my feet eat up at the space separating Rosalie and myself. Speed has never been a worry for me, but now it feels as if I'm the slowest vampire created.

Her screams for death are the sinister melodic backdrop for my rush. I want to tune everything out, pretend as if everything is fine and Carlisle is playing some mean-spirited hoax on me. I would gladly forgive him his abhorrent tease. He only needs to jump out at me and declare, "Got you, son."

However, the closer I get the more the situation becomes reality. There is nothing else to it. Rosalie, the one I had once envisioned to be so much more, is screaming herself hoarse, asking brokenly for death, shattering me more thoroughly than anything I had ever thought possible.

Every rip from her throat is involuntarily. She doesn't even know of my presence near her. The only thing she can think on is her brutal attack, the only thing she can see is the faces of those who taunted and defiled her every orifice repeatedly.

Sickness comes to my throat, burning a vicious path. It isn't conceivable what she endured.

The anger coursing through me is like nothing I have ever experienced. It rips and claws at all coherent contemplation. It takes away my freewill and replaces it with a deep-seeded need for blood and carnage. This unknown hunger all but debilitates me from any other recourse.

My fingers all but yearn to tear skin from muscle, crush bones to insignificant dust. The want and need is much deeper than any blood lust I've lived through. My irises must be blaring red from the physical struggle taking place within my body. My internal monster roars the loudest for blood, but my heart and soul call out to be near Rose.

I find she wins out. _Easily_.

With trepidation flooding my veins and hate burning my tongue and throat, I come to a near stop.

Everything is real, nothing is contrived. This isn't some night-terror I shall suddenly arise from. Reality has never seemed more groundless, more irrational. Everything is mad and my footing is slipping from veracity.

"Forgive me, Rosalie Hale. Too young you were." Carlisle's pleas are almost drowned out by his latest creation's cries.

With nothing left and everything fallen to the wayside, I all but rip the front door from its hinges and follow her wrenching voice.

My body finds little respite as I fall to my knees. I'm not even sure if I can encroach on her, if I can get any closer.

The horror which greets me is worse than my most vivid imagination. Rose is truly here. _She's burning from within_.

I want to laugh spitefully; Carlisle doesn't even have the courage, the gumption to meet my eyes.

Logically I know he isn't to blame; he wasn't the cause of Rose's massive internal injuries, the defilement of her closely guarded innocence. Royce and his damned fiends did it – enjoyed it – all on their lonesome.

My wrath concerning them consumes me almost wholly. My concern for Rose, however, wins out. And I stay.

_Please, allow me to die. I no longer want for this life. Let me slip into sleep_.

Her pleas are only fuel to my internal burning inferno. I cringe myself as my fingers dig inconsiderately into Esme's polished floors. It is either the floor or Royce's face. I think Esme would forgive my thoughtless folly.

Somehow, and with reserved strength I don't know I possess, I find the courage to pathetically crawl over towards _her_ . . . my c-changing, wilting Rose. _Well, depending on one's point of view_. The Volturi would call our curse a gift, eternal life lived happily.

So many things are rushing through me. I can not fathom how I can delineate between up and down, north and south. My feelings of inadequacy compared to hers. Everything is tied in a messy knot, with no hope of ever being unwound.

My harried breath catches painfully as I take in every inch of her glorious face. Rosalie had always been beautiful. No one could ever dispute fact, at least those who didn't despise her out of jealously.

But now, as my immaculate eyes takes in every contour, every crevice of her face, I'm caught speechless. Her beauty is beyond astounding. Never have I seen someone surpassing her beauty.

_So glorious. Blood and all. How long has she been burning_?

Where her hair was prettily golden, it is now angelically flaxen. Colors the human eye hasn't even observed are interwoven perfectly. The skin outlining her bone structure is flawless. Any diamond would be in envy of perfection.

My eyes trace over her neck and blood-splattered clothes. My long-forgotten gag reflex picks the most importune time to make a reappearance.

Unfortunately I catch Rose's thoughts and watch as that damn monster of a fiancé ripped her clothes, how he smacked her across the face so hard droplets of blood splattered on her dress. _Repeatedly_.

I watch as tears fell helplessly down her bruised face. All the while, she couldn't figure out what she had done wrong. _What she had done wrong_ . . .

Her memory is beyond agony for me, and ten times more so for her. She remembers every brutal detail with perfect clarity.

From the progress of her skin, to the flawless perfection of her face, to the barely seen bruising around her neck, I could tell she was well into the change. _How long had Esme and I been gone_?

Pitiful whimpers leave her frayed throat. She must realize screaming is for naught. It changes nothing, not even advancing the wretched, scorching time.

My arms beseech me to encircle her – to never allow any harm to befall her again. My lips beg to heal every inch of her beaten flesh. My venom behooves me, "_inject into her_"– to stop the senseless human pain.

But what she suffers and now endures is beyond the healing prowess of the venom. Nothing could take away the horrifying violence she had to endure. The mental violation is beyond repair.

Time passes as I study her. I block out all the noise, Carlisle's pleas and apologizes, Esme's cooing, endearments and errant sobs. I block it all out and focus on her. It can't come too soon, as once again her antagonized screams start.

If possible, her screams would feel like all the leeches sucking at my stolen blood, turning me cold and useless.

My lips tremble as my stone heart cracks straight down the center. If possible, I'd take her pain; I'd take _everything_ for the chance of her remaining human, untouched, with nothing but the gentle wish of being a mother touching her. _Her fondest wish_.

If possible, I'd crush the swine Royce King with my bare hands. I'd take his skull between my palms and squeeze until every bone was crushed, every drop of blood drained, every brain coil smashed into mush. The only remorse which would flow through me was it happening too swiftly.

_Oh, yes_ I crave his demise, his last breath.

Rose's screams keep me grounded, nonetheless.

Even though she doesn't know I can read her thoughts, doesn't mean I'll leave her to witness it again, relive it again by her lonesome.

If I possessed the ability to see into the future, my every move would have been centered on Rosalie. Her very safety would have been my utmost priority. Every step she took would have been shadowed by me. Every breath she breathed would have been protected. It didn't matter if she knew or not (approved or not) I wouldn't have allowed any harm to befall her.

Yet, I cannot see into the future and my leaving her is another sin I shall have to bear. I don't even think Clarence would have been able to stop the five men who caused Rose the greatest breach of trust, love and life.

There had been whisperings about Royce King, suspicions of why he had returned home early from University. I heard . . . _I heard_ them in the town people's thoughts, the speculation. Yet, I did nothing. I left her unarmed, prey to those very monsters in human form.

I escaped from Rochester because I had to escape her presence. I wouldn't have been strong enough to stay away. My freewill was nil in regards to Rosalie Hale. I knew no resistance when it came to her beauty within.

_My selfishness knows no bounds_.

.

I go to reach out, to touch her cooling skin, but quickly pull back. I shouldn't have the right. She is in this burning, prone position because of me.

_If I hadn't left her . . . if I hadn't said goodbye . . . if I hadn't interfered when she was stuck scared in an elevator . . . when I crushed her spirit and self-esteem . . . when she wouldn't have been desperate for validation from another man . . . if I hadn't said goodbye_ . . .

Everything is speculation with the actual consequences having already been etched into stone. Not even my strength is able to un-etch the outcome.

As Rose begs Carlisle to end her suffering, I silently beg any deity to turn back time, to release her from this burden she will now carry; to simply allow her the chance of being a mother.

In a tedious social circle where people only thought of more wealth and more beauty, she simply wanted to love her little ones. _Not that she didn't enjoy the status her position in society held_. We are all beholden to the flesh.

But as time passes and Esme's grandfather clock ticks mockingly in my ear, I know it won't come to fruition. _With the notion of freedom come consequences_.

This knowledge makes me angry. I know it is nonsensical of me to be angry, but a fabled God makes an easy scapegoat. However, even He isn't enough to satisfy the fury I seem to harbor in every cell of my body, every inch of my hardened flesh.

The only recourse is to let the rage seep from my body. If it stays within, I fear I may surely combust. I cannot comprehend how my body is able to sustain such rampant emotion, such unchecked anger.

I want to shred everything in my sight. I want to break and set fire to my entire existence. I simply want to ruin everything in my path and line of sight. Nothing would survive the mass carnage.

So I start to place blame.

It's all Royce's fault. The bastard should have been destroyed at birth. I refuse to believe he was innocent at birth. Such evil cannot just appear within a person. Something must go wrong. If the power existed, I would go back in time and drown the swine. Truly no remorse would pass through my body. I'd kill his little band of violators along with him. People of such a depraved nature never deserve to breathe. My vigilante ways burn brightly within me still.

.

It is Esme's fault. From the moment we moved to Rochester and she laid eyes on Rosalie, visions of grandeur entered her mind. She saw in Rosalie everything she tried to hide. She saw her innocence, her love to her family, her unfortunate respect to her mother, her displeasure of always having to put on a front. Esme saw what others didn't. What I had missed and disregarded as Miss. Hale's vanity.

And what Esme didn't miss, she started to match.

When I had refused to see Miss. Hale and put her from my mind, Esme had encouraged me to reach beyond what I knew was right.

"_She's terribly lovely, Edward, darling. There is no harm in befriending her. She can benefit from your friendship as you can hers." I went to argue, but she wouldn't have it. "Let's hear no arguments, darling. There is always a contrived reason not to do something. Push it away, Edward. Come what may in this situation._"

I had ignored Esme advice, weeks passed and I stood strong. But there is only so long I can stand the silent treatment from her. I defy any man to stand against the woman they love dearly. Even Adam fell to Eve as she fell to the serpent.

Like she knew, I fell, relenting to her advice and the secret place inside of me that wanted to befriend Rosalie Hale. Vain she was, but under the veneer there was more. She was this mystery waiting to be solved, _uncovered even_.

Where many saw her public persona, she allowed me beyond her mask . . . beyond her comfort level. We both discovered something so deeply beautiful inside her. _How could one shun such a selfless gift_? Even when I withheld myself from her, I was wholly taken with her.

_Oh yes_, _Rose_ was quite the departure from Rosalie Hale. I know she credited the cultivation to me, but _Rose_ was terribly blinded where I'm concerned. She didn't see my monster or flinch from my chilled skin. Rosalie cultivated _Rose_ on her very own; she took a newly formed bud and allowed it to flourish spectacularly.

But even Rosalie was beautiful in her own right. Ah, she was vain and self-assured. She sparkled resplendently in the limelight, but she was also strong. Rosalie Hale gave beauty to a world bleak and desolate with poverty, hunger and sharp distinctions in social classes.

She didn't realize the gift she gave. When people witnessed her beauty and smiled but for a moment, they saw beyond the misery of their existence to something magnificent. _Surely not everything is touched by the depression_, they would think. Their troubles were forgotten, even if it was momentarily.

And they were right. _She went beyond the fray_.

When I got beyond my own insecurities I placed at her feet unfairly, and got beyond my inane jealousy of Lawrence Andrews, I could see it all.

Graciously she forgave my unfairness and took me in as a confidant, a trusted friend. Like me, she was lacking in the department.

The more I came to know every part of Rose the more I felt it had been too long. It was scary, unhealthy and should have been firstly forbidden, but I couldn't let it be.

I selfishly wanted her in my existence, her smiles in my eyesight, her soft confessions whispered in my ear. _And Esme encouraged_.

I still can't help but smile when I think of her drunken misconstrued request for me to change her.

Embarrassingly and weakly I became hot and bothered by her warm breath on my cheek, her squirming body in my arms. I was taught even I wasn't above my wanton flesh, no matter what I thought.

"_You have permission to change me, Edward__," _she had drunkenly whispered to me. I couldn't help but become stone. The thought had occurred to me, even if it was in the darkest, selfish recesses of my mind. The request spoken aloud almost dropped me. Rose's trusting weight in my arms kept my knees locked.

She thought me nervous in seeing her unmentionables. She was the "_silly__"_ one. I had seen her multiple times in every gentlemen's sinful imagination. She inspired more fantasies than even she could know. Helen of Troy would have crawled on her belly before Rose's beauty.

Little by little I could feel myself falling for her that night. It started the moment her tear-filled eyes thanked me for saving her. _**But that night**_, goodness, it inspired something in me undiscovered.

Every moment after that which wasn't spent in her presence was torture. I wanted in turn to invoke everything in her she had invoked in me. She awoke a need inside me, one only she could fill. It made me angry at times, but I knew it to be unintentional. _And Esme encouraged_.

We both had so little control over our growing friendship . . . _relationship_?

Even having to socialize in public and eat revolting human food didn't discourage me from being near her. Regurgitating my human food was terribly unwelcomed, but seeing her jealous of other girls paying me attention was a bonus. It fed a part of my vanity I didn't know starved.

Having her wipe the sick from my mouth and caress my sad face brought me to my knees even further. Her mothering me, her caring for me, her concern and love for me was a fight I couldn't stand against. I was done from the moment she knelt beside me and stroked my sickly skin.

_Esme and Carlisle encouraged_ me in my friendship with her. They saw no harm in our relationship and only my happiness. What care was it that she was a frail human? Such limitations were overcome.

I had my moments of self-doubt, brooding and fear, but I somehow overcame them. They seemed like surmountable hurdles, easily jumped over.

I, instead, chose to bask warmly in her presence, in her undivided attention. It still pained me a little to see her in public, to have to have such tight control, but she performed beautifully.

What probably troubled me the most, however, was not being able to read her thoughts. Never had I not been able to read someone's surface thoughts. But her control was so tight, so precise I saw nothing but her vainness, her perfect cultivated persona. She was masterful. I fell even more.

Following her to New York City had been an easy decision. I knew the rubbish which littered the streets, the type of people which preyed on beauty like hers. I needed to know she was safe.

So like a tail I followed her. I didn't care if it was considered depraved behavior. I needed for her to be safe, and I sought out to make sure she was. No one could protect her like I.

But like the most well-conceived plans, it fell about my feet. It was actually humorous her aunt had been the one to spot me, even if it was fortuitous on her part.

Ms. Jacqueline Hale was a force to be reckoned with. She was loud, uncaring of what others thought of her and loved her brother's children more than herself. She would gladly give of her life for them.

I couldn't help but respect Ms. Hale after such knowledge. She gave to a cause bigger than herself. She put so many other shallow humans to shame, and put me in mind so much of her beloved niece.

The evening at her home had been enlightening, to say the least. It was the first taste I got of Rose's most ardent dream in action. As she cradled Benjamin and spoke so lovingly to him, I could for the first time feel a real separating of myself. _My selfish disregard_.

For it was easy to forget my nature and my unbeaten heart when in Rose's presence. Many would think me a liar at such a notion, but they couldn't see into my silent heart, into the beautiful warmth she provided to it.

With her I was simply her dear friend Edward. I had no other identity, nor did I require one. We both gave something exquisitely needful to the other. There was no need to see beyond our walls, to see any failing. _Not that it stopped me from trying_.

But that night cruelly afforded me the biggest failing of all, one of the many missing pieces to my person. Something I would never be able to give Rose. Even in _my_ most untamed, fervent dreams.

I realized there was something she cared for more than me, and though it hurt deeply – to think there was something unique I couldn't provide to her – it was the most beautiful, unselfish part of her.

The two parts couldn't converge in my mind. There was no making me into something I wasn't . . . a _real man_ with the _ability_ to have children. My heart was still, my seed sterile.

I was knocked flat. But I was also enthralled with the love, devotion and commitment she gave to her younger brothers.

Rose's thoughts all but rendered me immovable. They were so free for me to read.

As the week progressed, and I was graciously allowed time with her family, I knew my decision had to be made. _Resolute_. Although it has already been made. I had to leave our young relationship, our soft interlude.

Taking Henry and Benjamin to the Yankee's game had been a treat even to myself. I got to see the childlike excitement by way of their eyes and thoughts. The gift was priceless. But the trust Benjamin had given to me was beyond redemption.

The last gift I had given to myself, so very greedily, that New York City evening is still written on my very mislaid soul. Every touch, every stroke, every breath, every sweep of lips, every shared moment will forever be remembered. _One moment suspended in perfection it had been_.

I didn't know if she could feel the goodbye in my kiss or the reluctance I felt in ending it, but my decision had been made. A perfect kiss under the city lights couldn't change my nature or her intrinsic need for a child. Rose had been created to be a mother. It was a beautiful concept which needed to be realized, even if it cost me the love I felt for her.

_What was unattainable love compared to her deepest wish_?

_Oh_, I loved her so helplessly in that moment and before.

But there are decisions which take something, all but demand payment from one's person. Deciding to leave for her own good, did that to me. Being selfless wasn't in my nature as a vampire, and so it cost me. I willingly gave so she could gain.

Loving her so helplessly didn't cauterize the bleeding or pain I felt in saying goodbye to her, in watching her walk from me. Nothing has ever caused me as much pain as watching her disappear from my sightline.

It was another situation which tore a piece of my fragmented heart. The unbeaten organ felt as if it was held together with soft paste. Funny, considering my heart is stone held together by nothing stronger than dirty mud.

"_It is my right and prerogative to leave first," she firmly explained. "I have to survive, Edward! It is my only way forward_."

Unfairly I was proud of her. So many times I had written humans off as weak and so insignificant. She beautifully proved me wrong, in her case. _As with everything she did_.

Those words played hurtfully in my heart and mind. Again, I had no reason to be hurtful or angry at her . . . it was a situation of my own making.

"_I do too, you know . . . love_?" I had answered her unasked, retreating figure. The words refused to be left inside, regardless of how unmerited it was. The "_love_" had conveyed more than she could ever know.

When word came of her engagement, I unrepentantly killed a man and drained him. I was too distraught to be remorseful. My scarlet eyes had remained for several weeks, and were a constant reminder to her imminent nuptial. I refused to dilute the color with animal blood. But I also refused to think on it.

If not for Esme's tearful pleas and Carlisle's promise to vacate as soon as he could see to it, I wouldn't have returned to Rochester. I would have waited until they settled in the new house, new town, new (well-worn) routine. It was for my own survival, my own sanity of mind that we needed to move. Not to mention my selfishness. No bounds . . . _no bounds_.

Isolation hadn't work well for me, and my temporary lapse in killing the vagabond-rapist reminded me of such. Though repetition helped, it couldn't surpass family. Esme was my stability and Carlisle my conscience; my sense of right and wrong. I needed them enormously.

My stipulation to coming home for the weekend had been clear: I forbid Carlisle and Esme from reporting anything about Rose.

Anything regarding my past love was displaced from my notice, except _every moment we spent seeping into my traitorous mind_.

Carlisle still had to work and retain a presence in town. It was demanded of his station at the hospital. Their social circle was full of entertaining, no matter the Depression.

Carlisle and Esme had a role to play and social obligations to fulfill. Doing anything less would have caused and brought on problems and suspicion. So they continued to interact, and play the role our family cultivated. All the while, ignoring _any Hale_.

A week before her nuptials, a week before my love's sweet and innocent dreams of being a mother are fulfilled, she lies here, burning and turning into the very creature _I refused_ for her! _I had left for_! It is wholly unfair and so very cruel of fate!

So I put blame at Esme's feet. Right or wrong _she encouraged_ my association with her.

_What would have been if I never entered Rose's life? What dreams may have actually been realized for her_?

As Rose's screams of terror penetrate my visit to the past, my anger becomes directed at Carlisle. _How could he turn her_? I want to demand.

_Hurts . . . want to leave . . . please, just end. Dr. Cullen . . . Sweet Esme_? And on her thoughts continue.

.

Carlisle knew of my disdain for her becoming like us. He knew of the agony and misery it cost me to walk from her life. He saw my unshed tears and heard my pitiful excuses in needing to leave. How could he inject _his venom_ into her, making her a vampire?

But I know already the answers to my imprudent questions.

Regardless of placing blame or taking it onto oneself, it doesn't change her state of screaming, her state of skin hardening . . . her state of becoming a vampire. It is unchangeable, as indestructible as her body will become.

Everything is endlessly heart-wrenching.

As if my mind finds an eerie way to cope, I fall back to a moment, though sad, is not to be misplaced.

.

Early morning of the first day of the New Year, 1933

There have been times where I question my ethics, my motives in ambiguously grey situations. One can't play the role of quasi-vigilante and not.

_No right to be here, but I cannot explain my presence_, my mind explains my rational.

_My mind interrogates each movement my feet make, each moment I come closer. My entrance into her room is bordering on fanatic, but no amount of pleading with my mind can remove me. My heart overrules each rational resolution. _

_Hearing her call out my name vetoes any sane notion lingering in my head. I am disgusted with myself, with my intrusive actions, but it is nil in the grand scheme of my actions. _I have a higher purpose in being here_, my selfishness croons in delight_.

_Her memories – her happiness – all but hold me prisoner. _

_Exquisitely my mind touches her, and I find myself at peace. I sigh tenderly. When inside her mind, when I'm even able to read her thoughts, I find myself at peace. Beauty abounds in more than her flesh. The images she is able to dream up, to conceive are astounding. _Surely_, I could reach out and touch their soft exterior. I float brilliantly. _

_She dreams of her childhood, something which enraptures me. Not many people relive such vivid memories of their past. I watch the scenes pass quickly. They are merely vignettes of childhood pastimes: of playing with her younger siblings, of being a terrible daddy's girl. The love she gives to them . . . so pure and deeply felt by myself._

_I'm not surprised when her tender envisages pass onto her future children. Rosalie is beautiful, there is no arguing fact, but as she sees her children, they even surpass her splendor. My eyes want to hurt at their brilliant beauty. And though this is a dream, I know they shall be lovely, especially if they take after their mother even a little bit. _

_I want to answer her enquiry about her fiancé. Already I know he could never truly appreciate Rose. She surpasses him in every respect. It's quite hilarious thinking he could see the most intimate details of her heart. Royce King hardly sees beyond anything shiny and reflecting his visage; _not that I've met him_. Whisperings around town of his character are undecided. But Rosalie truly loves him. _

_The thing which enraptures me unsuspectingly, painfully, is her mumbling of my name. There is nothing which could prepare me for hearing my name echoing from her full lips and inside her gorgeous mind_.

_Sobs break within my chest, causing me to stumble. Although my skin is cold, I feel as if shards of ice are ripping my inseams. They claw and tear until everything is left in tatters_. Yet my body still stays undamaged.

_She knows of my adoration for her, of my knowing her fondest wish. Even before she vocally intimated them to me that misty day on the wet grass, I knew of her deep want in being a mother. It made her beyond description in my estimation_.

_Her heart beats in painful rhythms, but there is a quiet joy underneath. Her beautiful lips upturn as she remembers her affection for me, my being her first love_. First fall.

_Even though I left her, she will always take me where she resides. For I am a part of her soul. My image is somewhat tarnished, but my overall affect on her life is regarded with deep fondness . . . adoration_.

_But even these happy thoughts of hers can't stop the ache_. It is a situation of my own making, _I remind myself_.

Ready to let me go, _she is._

You wound me so very deeply. So unknowingly . . .

_My heart slices endlessly at her rightful rational. _How could you expect otherwise_? _

_It doesn't matter that my heart is shattering; my mind crying continuously, everything is as it should be. Rose is right in letting me finally dissipate from her heart. But my egocentricity knows no bounds. _

_Sadly, with little deliberation, I make my way over to her. I question my motives, my right in being so near to her, but it all goes dark, to the wayside. My arms have their own prerogative._

_Royce will have her until death, but I only have tonight. _

_My arms shake intolerably as I easily climb into bed next to her. My wariness in crossing unknown boundaries is forgotten as she blends so effortlessly into my embrace. _

_I pull her closer, making sure to keep her warm blankets wrapped tightly around her. I do not wish for her to become cold from my body. I am astounded, that though she is not awake she somehow knows I'm here. Her conscience can feel me near her. My disbelief in souls is severely thrown into question. _

_She allows herself to melt into me. Soft sighs escape our parted lips. _

_And now that I am touching her, _encircling her_, I can feel my desperation coming to the surface. It seeps from my skin into hers. Everything viable of me wants to live inside her. I try to persuade myself it is unattainable, without solution, but my stone, threadbare heart refuses._

"_Love you endlessly, love," I tell her brokenly. My heart is scrambling to be removed from my chest. But I am indestructible. One's heart knows no bounds. And my unbeaten one is trapped forever in the stone of my chest. _

_My unrealized sobs continue painfully as I hold her this last time. If possible, I would tear off my arms and offer them to her. She would always have a part of me attainable. But the thought is morbid and most likely sickeningly frightful to her._

"_Never forget me, love," I plead achingly. I need the reassurance I shall live forever inside her. Many things I am, and many things I will experience without her, but the thought of me clinging to her warms me. _

_It is unfair of me to ask such a boon, but like always when she regards me, Rose relents. I am wholly unfair to her, but she graciously looks beyond my terrible mistakes and abandonment. _

"_Never, my darling," she consents. _

_I feel a vibrancy within her. It is as if her desperation is matching my own, and she needs me urgently to know of her love for me, her unforgotten affection. I willingly and selfishly absorb it all. I cannot help but soak in everything she willingly offers. _

Glutton for punishment . . . Situation of my own making . . .

_As the short night turns to morn, and the moon keeps watch over our embraced forms, we give everything to one another. I am her _Edward_ and she is my _Rose_. _Mine endlessly_. She makes her last Grand stand._

"_Love you endlessly," I repeatedly whisper to her until the weak light of dawn chases away the nighttime shadows, and I along with it. _

And I along with it_. _

_My lips are still splendidly warmed from lovingly gracing her cheek. _

First Fall_. _

.

Never had I expected Rose to be like this. Never in my deepest machinations would Rose (in reality) become a vampire. She was meant for the light. She was to be radiant . . . _wonderfully human_.

But now, as her screams have turned into whimpers again and Carlisle explains the nature of her new life, a fluttering of hope passes through me.

I cannot ward off the selfishness which starts to encompass my heart.

Her fate is sealed, the venom un-retractable. A vampire she is to be.

Nothing can be undone. _And I started to hope_.

Could Rosalie really work in this life, this cyclical existence of eternity? Could we actually have a chance to explore what I selfishly walked away from? Would she even consider me as a suitor? Could she think beyond her attack to even want such a _relationship_? I couldn't fault her if she declined whole-heartedly.

After all, is there a tentative future to be had between us?

Reality settles on my self-interest. Agonized pleas of death filter into my anticipation. Rosalie bursts the bubble on my ephemeral narrative.

I feel the terrible dread and emptiness start to infiltrate. I want for nothing but to return to the jovial aspiration. But one doesn't always receive what one wants. I only need to listen to Rosalie's now returned screams.

_It is all but a lost cause. Edward had his chance – or what there really was of it – and decided to walk away, _my mind viciously taunts_. _

Anger starts to build unhealthily within. I want to lash out again. I want only for this night-terror to be over. I want for this unthinkable situation to be finished.

Quickly the anger rises, soon to overtake my thoughts.

Did it really matter if I made the unilateral decision for her not to become vampire? _Almost, certainly not_.

However, I took responsibility and the consequences for my decision. Unending and unrelenting pain I felt acutely so she could live, so she could carry a child in her womb, so she could know what it felt like to love something so endlessly of her own creation.

I had suffered so she could live.

_For it is all in vain_.

And now she asks for death, asks for her existence to end for good. My sacrifice seems now ludicrous to me, wholly unwanted. Evident it is that I'm placing unfair blame on her, but my anger doesn't care to whom it's relegated at.

Any release from this insanity is welcome.

Rosalie now pleads for me _**to release **_her. She pleads _**for me**_ to _**end**_ her. _How did she even know I am here?_

I lose my last shred of coherency.

When Carlisle apologizes again and again to her pleas of death, my ire rises. As he strokes her hand and it has no effect, I want to lash out.

Fury overtakes my rational thought and replaces it with inequity.

She is soon to be done. I can no longer keep at bay the question. The words unhappily tumble from my angered lips. It is the culmination of everything I feel, every betrayal I feel from my father.

I can't help but cruelly ask, "**What were you thinking, Carlisle**?" My father flinches at my tone. Esme looks forlorn.

Hurt blossoms so very deeply within _her_. She can feel my displeasure and (for once) I'm selfishly happy she feels the denunciation. It is but a trifle of what I feel in her asking me to _end her_. _To all but kill her_. I could no sooner hurt her brothers.

"**Rosalie Hale**?" I say her full name, knowing it will cut deeply. So very rare it ever was I called her Rosalie Hale. It was known between us, _Rosalie Hale_ was the public persona. _Rose_ was mine.

_**Something wrong with me**_ . . . she thinks.

I feel a minutia of guilt in hurting her, but do not relent.

"**I couldn't just let her die**," my father quietly, graciously implores. "**It was too much – too horrible, too much waste**."

I think of Royce and the utter piece of shit he is. Images of her brutal attack run through my mind as they do hers. I want nothing but for my hands to ring around his neck, to rip the useless skin from his puny bones. The bastard deserves to die. "**I know**." My tone is cold, unforgiving in regards to him.

_Uncaring . . . __**dismissive**__ of me_. She couldn't be more wrong in her assumptions. I care endlessly for her. It is my displaced anger she hears.

"**It was too much waste. I couldn't leave her**." Carlisle's murmurs of guilt continue to bleed into me. _Why isn't this nightmare over? Are we truly enduring this hellish reality_?

"**Of course you couldn't**," Esme absolves her beloved. I silently agree, but my anger is still too rampant for me to voice. Rosalie still wants to be away from this existence. _Not that I can blame her. But I do_.

It hurts to hear her wanting so far away. I want to shake her, to plead myself for her to never leave me. _But what good would any of it be_?

_Want her by me endlessly_ . . . _she wants to selfishly die_.

"**People die all the time**," I callously deadpan to Carlisle. I want to lash out harshly. She doesn't want my love, my pity.

_Too harsh_, I hear Esme's silent reproof. I nod my head in regret. She is right, of course.

The adverse aspect of everything is Rosalie believes me. Believes the terrible things I spew.

"**Don't you think she's just a little recognizable, though**?" Once again, I hit below what is fair and throw her vanity in her face; what she thought to be her saving grace in society.

Esme gives me the most disappointed look.

_Beyond deplorable_. But I don't stop. Nothing seems to dam up my harmful mouth.

"**The Kings will have to put up a huge search – not that anyone suspects the fiend**," I cannot help but growl the last part of my callous statement. Even contemplating that bastard is enough to scorch my venom. It happily fills my mouth.

Carlisle or Esme don't answer; they watch her more intently. It is now only a matter of time.

I know I'm a selfish creature, but the depths of my self-involvement, my hurtfulness surprise even me. Perhaps it is I who needs to depart from this existence. But I fear my masochistic side would prevail.

I shake my head from myself and focus on her.

_My Rose_.

The one I envisioned to be only happy is about to finish hardening. Her heart is beating fiercely and this time my presence has no bearing on the increased pounding. The pain must be receding quickly.

_She is to be one of us_. My sobs are controlled within. I refuse to show any weakness. It does not matter how much I am dying inside as she is given eternity.

"**What are we going to do with her**?" I ask aloud, for no apparent reason and with no malice. It is the question my heart wants to beat over and over. _What am I to do with her . . . what is she to do with herself . . .?_ The unforthcoming answers alarm me greatly. _Does she want me to do anything with her_?

My father sighs anxiously.

_**Too much waste**__. Will she forgive me? I couldn't leave her_. The thoughts run as if on loop in my mentor's restless mind.

"**That's up to her, of course. She may want to go her own way**."

As if on the same wavelength, the four of us occupying the room have the same thought, _No_!

Esme sees her already as a daughter, a female companion. She loved Rose from the first.

Carlisle sees her as a member of his family. She brought something to me no one else could accomplish. _Romantic affection. Love_.

Rose thinks of her fear. She can't fathom _**being alone**_. She was always a creature of society. Like I had envisioned, she was meant for the spotlight.

I want to take that fear from her, but unluckily lack the talent. I want her by my side always, but _fear_ she won't reciprocate. I want to love her, to eventually worship her body in love, but I _fear_ she will reject me. But even with all my misgivings, I don't want her to leave. It is improbable.

For the next little while, no one speaks, no one breathes. _All but Rose_.

The room is still, not even her past whimpers disturb the air. It's as if everything waits with anticipated, metaphorical breaths. _All but Rose_.

The only thing to disturb the anticipation is her anxious heartbeats waiting to stop for perpetuity.

My eyes start to fill with unshed tears. The venom viciously stings my orbs, but I'm uncaring. She's on the cusp of unwanted eternity.

My hands shake, my lungs feel burdened, my venom scorches my hardened veins, my throat lumps painfully, my mind whirls for anything to grasp, my heart (the long-since-silenced, all-but-forgotten organ) excoriates my callousness: the pain I caused her to feel.

I close my overburdened eyes, and take in the evermore beautiful music of her heart's beat. Never has a more glorious sound been heard. I take in every pulse, every cadence, every ebb and flow of her exquisite muscle. I sear it all into memory.

My breathing is horridly uneven.

Imagines of her . . . of our time together run resplendently though my mindscape. I remember it all.

_Miss. Hale in terror, crying lethargically for anyone to help her. _

_Miss. Hale's tear-stained eyes first taking me in. _

_Miss. Hale thanking me profusely, beautifully red-rimmed eyes, golden curls adorably mussed._

_Miss. Hale giving me permission to refer to her as my Rose. Feeling something foreign, never felt before in regards to a human._

_Timeless talks which never had enough time. Dusty libraries. _

_Getting to know someone unknown, hidden; only waiting to be discovered. _Rose_ . . ._

_Walks in a greenhouse. Holding fingers under floating grey clouds. Coming to a realization of being friends with a human. _No . . . with a Rose_._

_Watching unfairly a different side to the one I pigeonholed. _Very different from my Rose_. Feeling foreign emotions as men think unscrupulously wrong of her. Wanting to tear them all to shreds. _Jealously_. _

_Taking my anger, jealously and resentment out on her. She lied to me. _Unknowingly_. _But an omission is still a lie_. Watching her fall listlessly to the ground. Begging me to be real with her, to see the real her. Calling out for me. _

_Wanting to apologize to the forlorn Rose. Watching from afar as she crumbled into herself. People thought her weak, but she wasn't. She had a right to mourn. I had done her wrong. She was above them all. _

_Staging something which was worthy of her and her forgiveness. Hoping like mad she'd forgive me. Composing a piece that spoke of the true beauty which lay inside Rosalie Hale. Even hidden or overlooked by her. _

_Playing for her that which only music could convey. _

_Smiling happily as she unselfishly forgave me. _She didn't have to, yet had_. Kneeling before her and being absolutely astounded by her beauty. There was nothing like it. _

_Showing her the most intimate room to me: the place where my soul spoke in music. Watching as she understood and appreciated it as I hoped she would. _I made the right decision to show her_. She was my beloved friend. _On the cusp of more_ . . . _

_Writing missives to her of the understated beauty of her countenance. My Rose, regardless if she knew, didn't know her worth, didn't know how deeply and unchangingly she affected me. _

_Helplessly laughing at her drunken state. She had been a cute sight to behold. Never had I been more entertained, stunned, hotly bothered and wanted. She loved me as I loved her. Our relationship ran deep. _

_Sitting under a tree, listening to her truths as I intimate my own. She was believing and accepting, when she should have turned from me. _But she didn't_. She saw beyond my blunders and shortcomings. She was falling. _

_Realizing how much I had fallen myself for her inside a bathroom with the sickening smell of my bile tingeing the air. _She selflessly wiped the sick from my face_. _

_Spending a glorious time in New York City with not only her, but the rest of the Hale's. It is unsurpassed. It is the happiest I ever was with Rose, still knowing I had to say goodbye. For once I allowed my heart and body to live in the present. _

_Kissing the one I had come to beautifully love. Her lips forever imprinted on mine. Her taste endlessly sampled in my mind. Every moment endlessly lived over again. _

_Saying goodbye to the one I had fallen for. No one there to catch me, only my want in her to live happily. She wanted me to stay, to love her, but I couldn't. She was meant to be a mother and not my eternal, unchanging Rose. She was meant for better things. Words failed me terribly, but my love for her endured. I would gladly hurt so she could love another, love her unborn children. _

_Being happy she had found her forgotten friendship in Vera. Being inconsolable after she became engaged to that bastard Royce. Thus killing a faceless man I still feel no regret for. I was beyond recognizable. _

_Watching as her once healthy skin becomes hard. Hoping still it is all but a bad dream and one deep pinch will awake me. Knowing that though she was beautiful before, it pales in comparison to what she is now. I become exquisitely breathless with her beauty. _

_Always . . . _Always_ being overwhelmed as she put me first, above even herself, her own feeling. Some people thought her weak, different. But I knew differently. It takes an amazingly beautiful person to be so selfless towards me. She was above them all. _Even myself_. _

Everything about her I remember, deeply embedding every detail. It is all I have left in my weakening grasp. I don't know what she will want with me after the beating of her heart stops completely.

Some unknown maestro seems to hear my thoughts, my inner musings, because before I can even think the next contemplation; her weak heart gives out its last sound.

She is finished. My Rose forever frozen in Vampire Rosalie. Everything is unknown to me, something which is beyond foreign. My ability to read minds has no bearing on this situation. We all now wait. All those present.

The heart beats stop for the magnificent grand finale. All is silent. My tears refuse to fall. Her eyelids beautifully flutter open. Ruby-red orbs meet my gaze. Our hands somehow clasp.

_Love her without end_.

She wakes up forevermore as Rosalie Lillian Hale (_Cullen_?): the most dazzlingly of us all. Truly, no one can compete with her beauty.

_No imperfections physically visible_.

.

* * *

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Final Author's Notes: Wow! What a ride it has been for me. Even I didn't contemplate all the things these characters would take me through. Love or hate it, the process of writing this story was amazing for me. What started off as something I intended as a one-shot became so much more. I simply wanted to explore the enigmatic character which was Rosalie Hale – thus giving her an actual fair shake. She was never a simple, vapid secondary character to me, but much more. How fun it was to bring those hidden qualities to a more dimensional character. Simply put, she over-whelmed me (hehe).

I want to thank all those who came along for the ride and even moreso those who gave me their invaluable opinions. I didn't always respond (because I'm a lazy, horrid procrastinator) but I terribly appreciate every opinion. You are what make a writer flourish and continue to the end. From the bottom of my writer's heart – simply thank you, loves!

To those who may be looking for a sequel, what do you think? Should I continue or leave it up to your unsurpassed imaginations? It seemed interest waned towards the end of this story, and I wouldn't want to put more time in if it doesn't create the same interest as the beginning and middle. So if you want, please let me know your opinions or if you have any questions in regards to this one.

Thanks again! I hope all is well with everyone. And hopefully – whether it be in continuance of this story, or a new Rose/Edward story – I'll post in this ship again. Much love to everyone!

__―__ Sunny_Orange_

_Finished: Friday, 24 May 2013_


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